


Play the Freak, Pray for Weeks

by mugsandpugs



Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Background Lance/Pietro, Character Study, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, Healing, Lance is poly Scott is not, M/M, Other implied background relationships, Poly Lance, SHIELD, Spies & Secret Agents, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, it causes conflict
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-04-06 10:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14054973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: Scott Summers has become increasingly suicidal following the death of his life-partner. When an old rival tries to recruit him into working for SHIELD, Scott finally admits the truth in a bid for help.*** Incomplete and Discontinued ***





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I shouldn't have to put this warning up here after spelling it out in the tags and the summary, but in case I do-- yes, this story deals with thoughts of suicide*, talk of suicide, and suicidal planning. This story also deals with grief and depression and alcoholism and a whole bunch of other mental illness stew. If this triggers you in any way, please do not read any further.
> 
> *No, nobody actually offs themself in this story. I would not do that to readers without a proper warning.
> 
> Title from Sofi Tukker's "[Fuck They.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_wxsVWXXQM)"

This was a far nicer place than he'd expected when Alvers had called him up, supposedly out of the blue.

(It was under no circumstances 'out of the blue.' Something was brewing. Scott wasn't _completely_ stupid... Or maybe he was. He had agreed to come, after all.) 

Usually, Scott was overdressed everywhere he went. As a politician, agent, and activist pushing thirty, living in a trendy city, there wasn't much room in his wardrobe for casual clothing. He checked the address on his phone to verify that, yes, this was the right bar (it seemed more like a country club!) and sighed, looking around in the tastefully dim lighting, seeing no tousle-haired delinquent among the cufflinks and little black dresses. This had to be some sort of joke. 

"Good evening, sir; are you looking for someone?" a sultry-voiced server asked him. Her hair was a dark auburn color and tied in a sleek chignon at the nape of her neck. She didn't really look a thing like Jean, aside from the hair, and yet still his heart squeezed. He struggled to form the correct words, to force coherency from his dead brain. 

Finally he managed to choke out an, "Evening. I'm meeting an 'Alvers'?" 

She smiled, a dimple popping in her cheek. "Right this way, Mr. Summers." 

Huh. He'd thought he was braced for anything as he was lead to a small back booth; all burnished wood. Soft classical music was playing over strategically-hid speakers. The place was not crowded, but pleasantly full. 

And then he saw Lance. 

At 6'0, Scott was no slouch, but Lance had been the taller leader for as long as Scott had known him. And he'd filled out even more, too; no longer a gangly coyote, but a full-chested wolf. This wasn't what had Scott's eyes widening in surprise. The man was dressed impeccably in a simple, tasteful suit. The gold threads in his accessories brought out the highlights in his dark eyes and warm skintone. Even his hair, always so long and shaggy, now looked soft and glossy. He looked like some young Greek diplomat, not the punk that had and continued to rival him. 

Lance stood, offering a hand for Scott to shake. On autopilot as he so often was nowadays, Scott danced the steps of the familiar greeting, but could not stop staring. 

"Can I get you another drink, Mr. Alvers?" the server asked politely, turning her dazzlingly bright smile to Lance. 

"Yeah, thanks Sharon. And then whatever Summers wants, too- he's my date today, so put it on my tab. You hungry, Summers?" He had the gall to _wink._ What the hell was this?! 

Scott shook his head. He'd been born and bred with good manners, so it was second nature to wait until Lance sat at the booth again before slipping into the leather seat opposite him. “I’m not really hungry, but thank you.” 

Lance nodded. He still had that slight smoker's rasp in his voice that had so annoyed- and appealed to- Scott in their youth. "I hear you. Just drinks, then! Sharon, get him something girly and fruity, would you, babe? Go light on the alcohol." 

When she smiled conspiratorially at Scott, it was easy enough to touch her arm, to shoot Lance a Look, to murmur, "Don’t listen to that idiot. Make it a rye straight, please, Sharon." He could still perform the functions of a normal Scott, when it was required, so long as he was playing for an audience. When there weren't people around, however, he found he was losing hours of time-- entire _weekends_ even-- in staticky blankness. 

She smiled, apparently buying the act that these two men were old friends giving each other a hard time, rather than estranged rivals sizing each other up, and bustled for the kitchens. 

Scott waited until she was safely out of the way before narrowing his eyes at the person across from him. "Cut the nonsense. Are you a shapeshifter? Mystique? I _know_ Lance Alvers, and this isn't him." 

'Lance' _snorted,_ ducking his head in laughter. It was such an inelegant sound in this classy place that Scott began to doubt his certainty. Lance's eyes were crinkled in a warm smile when he looked back up. "Oh man; Todd owes me fifty bucks. I _knew_ you'd say that." 

Scott wasn’t swayed. He brought a hand to his ever-present goggles; at the ready for an attack that never came. "If you can't convince me--" 

"Hey, hey," Lance, still smirking, put up his palms in a gesture of peace. "Chill, alright? It's me. Old purple-haired Alvers." 

Scott slumped back in his seat, glaring petulantly at his own hands folded before him. Lance was referring to a particularly embarrassing incident from their youths, when Scott realized the red tint of his goggles forced him to see colors incorrectly. He was fairly certain that nobody else knew about that. "Fine. I’ll bite. What's this all about?" 

Lance offered a trickster's smile. "What; can't I just want to catch up with an old pal?" 

Scott was about to reply scathingly, but Sharon returned with their drinks. It was hard not to look at her, her pale skin and tiny freckles; the deep, rich red of her hair. 

When he returned his attention to Alvers, the other man was regarding him knowingly. Almost kindly. Right. It wasn’t exactly a secret, all the hell that had taken place. All special forces, including SHIELD’s mutant agents, had been called in to clean up the mess. 

"How are you holding up?" 

That was all anyone asked Scott nowadays. Usually he answered with a smile and some meaningless drivel." _Doing my best!_ " or, " _taking it one day at a time!_ "But was the point of pretending for Alvers? Scott didn't feel like being impressive tonight. The man already had a low opinion of him; it wasn't as though the truth could make it any worse. 

"About as well as you could expect, losing your life partner in the most horrific way possible," he said, shrugging hollowly. He didn't bother to mask the tired slump to his shoulders; the emptiness of his gaze. He waited for Alvers to roll his eyes. _You're being dramatic. It's been months; get over it already. We've all lost somebody._

He didn't. He instead tapped his shotglass against Scott's. "To Red. Ain't life just a bitch!" He toasted soberly, and tossed his shot back. Scott, after a pause, followed suit, relishing in the bitter burn down his throat; the tingling to his nose and eyes, the bracing heat that spread a path of fire through his throat and chest after one big swallow. This was quality stuff; smooth. _Expensive._

At least he wasn't telling Scott to _keep his chin up!_ to _find the rainbow at the end of the storm!_ The lack of patronizing platitude was refreshing 

"Ain't life a bitch," he agreed quietly, staring into his now-empty glass. "Listen, Alvers, thank you for the drink, but I've really got some work to get-" 

"Hey, don't go," Lance protested, reaching to snag Scott's arm. "We haven't even talked yet." 

Scott frowned at the hold, stiffening but content in knowing that he could easily vaporize Lance's hand in an instant should he so desire. Lance met his eyes, reading the threat there. He loosened his grip, but didn’t let go. "Scott." 

How long had it been since anyone had touched his skin? He counted back from the last time he'd had breakfast with Kitty. She always hugged him. Three weeks? Four? He'd never forgiven Lance for stealing her from the X-Men, but maybe she was having a good influence on the man because Scott felt soothed at the brush of another’s hand. 

Scott closed his hand around the fingers now in his palm and tried not to think about how _weird_ this all was. "What did you want to talk about?" 

Lance grinned and signalled for more drinks. "Right to the point, I like it. Okay: I wondered if you'd reconsidered your stance on giving SHIELD a chance--?" 

"No." 

"Aw, come on, you didn't even think about it!" 

"I don't need to. There's only a tiny installment of SHIELD mutants, and you're in charge of all of them. I'm not working for you." 

Lance didn't look at all offended. " _That's_ your only problem?" he asked. "I thought for sure you'd bring up loyalty to Charles first. Trouble in paradise?" 

Scott pressed his lips tight, trying to school his expression. Of _course_ he was loyal to Charles. The man had raised (groomed) him into the man (puppet) he was today. He owed it all to him. 

Lance leaned in, and Scott realized he'd been silent for too long again. That happened to him sometimes, especially lately. 

"You can tell me," Lance pried. "He was pissed at you for the mess in Buffalo, wasn't he?" 

The X-Men had received some bad press a few weeks back for badly messing up a publicity stunt. Scott had completely lost his focus and made some bad calls for his team that had resulted in civilian injury. Charles had indeed been chilly with him since that. 

"So _your people_ want me now?" Scott snorted. "You think that since I'm not the golden boy anymore, you get to pick up the scraps?" 

"Yeah, pretty much!” Lance, shameless, gave a shrug. 

They were _holding hands_ now. What the hell? When had he done that, and why hadn’t Lance stopped him? Was Scott’s dazed state a source of amusement for the other mutant? Disconcerted, Scott pulled his hand free just as Sharon returned with more whiskey. 

"You said it yourself," Scott huffed, after a stiff sip had stabilized him, though it took a lot more than this to get him buzzed nowadays. "As you've noticed, I’m far from my best right now. I might never return to being _The_ Cyclops.” 

"That's the thing!" Lance's eyes gleamed with excitement, or mischief. "I think I can get you back to top form. You," he pointed the toothpick from his drink at Scott. "Need a change of scenery. New allies. A challenge. And what’s the risk? You can't tell me daddy Charles wouldn't take you back if it didn't work out... Maybe some grovelling, some dick-sucking… At the end of the day he'll always love you. You're his _special baby boy_.” 

Scott wrinkled his nose at Alvers' crudeness, then sighed as both his hands were then seized in the Avalanche’s fervor. Lance was going to manipulate his touch-starved self into the ground, wasn’t he? 

"Think about it, Summers. No- don't think! Just do it. Go with your gut for once. Is working for me really _that_ bad? I've been doing this job for eight years now; I've gotten pretty good at it." 

This was quite the hustle. Scott felt impressed, if objectified. “You sound like a used car salesman. Just to play devil’s advocate, let's say I did. What's in it for me?" 

As Lance jumped into a charmingly profanity-studded spiel on salaries, company vehicles, and living situations, Scott struggled to focus, to think. His brain felt like such mush. He'd been a terrible leader lately for so many reasons. He knew he was becoming a danger to his team. He'd even considered retirement... but if he didn't have his work to distract himself, he suspected he might just 'accidently' take too many antidepressants, finish off that sweet decanter of Johnnie Walker he had waiting on the mantle, and slip away with a smile on his face. 

He'd been considering that option far more lately than he probably should have. Even before Jean's death, it was as though his mind had just been testing the idea until it was no longer shocking or disconcerting, and then it'd become just another part of him; something that was always there, comfortingly, whenever he let his guard down. 

"- you think, Summers?" 

He refocused on Lance, blinking. "Huh?" 

Lance's winning smile slipped. "You weren't listening. Damn. It's hard to tell with your goggles." 

"I wasn't; sorry," Scott sighed. "I told you I'm a mess. You really don't want me." 

Maybe he'd put that antidepressant-and-whiskey plan to work _tonight_. Play some jazz on the phonograph. Make himself a bubble bath. Prop Jean's picture up on the sink so she could be the last thing he saw before he... 

Lance scowled. He always _had_ been stubborn. "Summers, just let me take care of you. I can do it, I promise." 

There was a certain cadence to his voice. Not quite suggestive, but bordering on it. It was... 

And just like that, everything clicked. The nice place. The attractive suit. The way Lance cocked his head, hands still touching his wrists, thumbs sliding over Scott's knuckles as he bit his own lip… 

Of course. _Of course_ , of course. Scott was, for the first time in ages, startled into true laughter that rose from his gut and spilled out in peals he dared not call ‘giggles’. 

"This is a honey trap! My _God_ , Alvers. SHIELD set me up for a honey trap, didn't they?! With you. _You_!" 

Instead of snatching his hands away, Lance, an ironic quirk to his mouth, hooked a thumb under Scott's fingers and lifted his hand to his lips. Watching Lance showily, pointedly kiss his knuckles was nothing short of _surreal_ , and still he couldn’t curb his mirth. Lance didn’t have an ounce of shame or guilt in his body, did he? 

"Well, did it work? Pietro seemed to think you had a thing for me, back in the day." 

“He wasn’t wrong about that.” Scott raised his glass in a toast for the absent Quicksilver. “He always was sharper than you. Why isn't _he_ the leader, again?” 

"Hey." Lance took the diss with good humor. "Cut me some slack. My self-esteem wasn't the greatest back then." 

Scott smiled wistfully. "You have no idea how badly I wanted to punch your smug face in, only to kiss it better. Put you in your place.” Yet more candid honesty he’d once have been mortified to share. Now he simply didn’t have it in him to _care_ anymore. 

Now Lance was the one looking impressed. “Kinky. I like it. You should have brought that up; I’m sure we could've arranged something.” 

Oh, _now_ the flush came. Belated, but it was good to know he could still feel excitement. “I don’t think that would have been a good idea. I had Jean and you had- have- Kitty.” 

Lance tilted his head side to side, indicating that that last part was debatable. 

Now Scott frowned, cocking his head to fix a sharp look at Lance. Lance and Kitty were a mutant power couple in the way Scott and Jean used to be; good looking, charming, human-passing enough not to be threatening upon first glance. They were sold to the public as superheroes who were Just Like _Normal People_ (but better)! Tabloid rags were always debating whether Kitty was pregnant, and what their (beautiful, perfect) baby might be capable of. 

“I’m obligated to remind you that if you hurt her, I’ll still rip you to pieces,” Scott said, and was surprised to find that he still meant it. Sure, they were all adults now, but Kitty had been like a little sister to him for over a decade. She was one of the few genuinely good pieces of sunshine still in his life. 

Lance waved him off like his threat was a fly to be swatted away. "Re _lax,_ boyscout. Don't believe everything you read in the papers. She and I have been off for years." 

Kitty had never told Scott about _that_... "You two _just_ stated that you were thinking of marriage. I saw the interview on TV." 

Lance shrugged. "What can I tell you? We say what Fury tells us to say." 

That was... 

The thing was, Scott believed him. He was disappointed, though. He'd sort of hoped Fury was different than Charles in matters of public opinion, the bells and whistles and three-ringed circus of it all, but. Well. 

“So let me get this straight,” Scott shifted in his chair, resisting the urge to tuck one of his legs up as though he were on his sofa in his empty penthouse apartment. “You want me to join SHIELD and answer to _you._ You want me to trade being a tool for the X-Men for being a tool for Fury.” 

Lance looked positively delighted at his verbiage. He laughed; clapped, set his empty glass down with a thud. “Summers! You’ll _always_ be someone’s tool, but fuck, man; at least this way you’d get to _choose_ who uses you.” 

A few patrons glanced their way at Lance’s loud crudeness. Once, Scott would have been embarrassed. He didn’t much care anymore. Lance liked making a spectacle of himself; liked making his company uncomfortable. Scott wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. 

“No undue offense meant, Alvers, but I don’t know if I trust you to lead me into anything. I saw you as a leader back in school days, and I wasn’t impressed.” 

It was true that Lance had been fighting huge odds at the time, though; managing a gang of unruly mutant teenagers with no resources or finances or support. Honestly, it was amazing that he did as well as he had. They’d all survived, somehow. The same couldn’t be said for everyone on _Scott’s_ team. 

To his surprise, Lance was glaring. Out of all the flippant things he’d said tonight, apparently this was what Lance was chose to be annoyed about. “That’s some bullshit, Summers,” he growled. “I take good care of what’s mine.” 

Did he, now. Scott scooted his empty glass around the table with an index finger, thinking. Either the question or the alcohol had a warm sort of buzz going on in his belly. He let his mouth do the talking. “Would I really be 'yours', or would I just be an outsider looking in?” 

Lance’s team was a pretty tight-knit little group. There were the Maximoff twins, though how they’d ever recruited them from Magneto, Scott would never know- and the Blob and Toad… All Brotherhood boys, recruited more for familiarity than skill (though they’d improved rapidly with someone around making sure they had food and proper training). Kitty had been the latecomer, but even she’d had a proper in, in the form of Lance. 

Scott wouldn’t fit into such a crowd. He couldn’t. Too much bad blood between them all. Why did the thought make him feel a little sad? 

( _Because no matter how awful things were for them, they always had each other. Who do you have_ now, _Scotty?_ ) 

A hand boldly touched his chin, tilting his face up. Lance, ducking his face to look closely, understood the nature of this insecurity. “Summers?” he said quietly. “When you’re mine, you’ll be theirs, too. If I say you’re in, you’re in. I take care of my people. I see that all their needs are met; that they’re safe, happy, protected. They always come first. Can your precious _Charles_ say the same thing?” 

_When_ you’re mine. _When._

Lance really wasn’t expecting to come out of this meeting empty-handed, was he? 

The urge to fold, to let someone else take the reins for once in his life, was intoxicating. He just wanted to let his mind rest, just for a second. Almost without realizing it, he found he’d tilted closer to Lance’s hand, eyes falling shut. 

Lance taking his face was too intimate a gesture by far for this public place. Scott wondered if other patrons were staring as Lance carefully brushed knuckles up Scott’s smooth-shaven cheek, rubbed a soothing thumb over the plane of his temple. A shuddery sigh welled up inside him… As did a familiar, surprising warmth elsewhere. 

Scott hadn’t experienced arousal in months upon months. Longing and masturbation were a thing of the past. Now? Now he was reminded that certain feelings still existed. It was almost like being alive. 

He turned his face again, allowing his dry lips to brush the skin of Lance’s wrist- trying to seem casual, though his own daring made his heart kick up half a notch- and was awarded to the sight of Lance’s very intense gaze focused on his mouth when he again risked opening his eyes. 

“Do that again and I’m taking you out to the car,” Lance warned, though he didn’t move his hand away. 

He was promising so much. Happiness- or at least, the occasional absence of misery- and protection, and the knowledge that someone else would be calling the shots. When he said it like that over a few drinks, it seemed like an obvious choice to make. And the thought of the Brotherhood, being part of their togetherness, their unity… The allure was immense. 

Meeting Lance’s eyes, he parted his lips and drew one of Lance’s fingers into his mouth, curling the flat of his tongue around it and sucking softly until the taste of salt vanished and all was bland skin. 

Lance’s expression didn’t change. He looked merely thoughtful as he stood, retrieving his hand and heading for the doors. “Come on, Summers.” 

“You haven’t paid-” 

“I have a tab.” Whether that meant it was an infinite tab full of unpaid drinks, or if Sharon would automatically subtract the amount from Lance’s bank account, Scott didn’t know and decided he didn’t care, either. 

He stood and followed after Lance’s confident stride, careful to avoid any glances other patrons may have thrown their way. He about blushed through his goggles when Sharon wished them both a heartfelt “have a good evening!”, hoping she wasn’t able to see what was going on in his mind. Just when he’d thought he was past feeling shame-- 

Lance, just outside, was texting something into a small black cell phone. He slipped it into the pocket of his suit jacket, then loosened his tie, popping the first two buttons on his shirt. In just that one small, impatient movement, he looked more like himself than he had all evening. Scott’s mouth felt very dry. 

“The driver’s on his way.” 

They slunk into the shadows of the bar, close enough to see the curb, far enough to be hidden. Did Alvers look a little nervous now, too? It was gone in a second as he reached, threaded two fingers through a belt loop of Scott’s slacks, and tugged him closer. “Come here. You said earlier that you wanted to put me in my place?” 

Scott wasn’t sure if he wanted his previous, uncaring numbness back, or if he was grateful to be feeling something, _anything_ at all right now. He stammered. Lance silenced him with a steady stare. “Well, don't even try it. Tonight I’m going to put you in _your_ place.” 

Scott shivered at the promise. His hands felt sweaty. He tried to covertly dry them on his slacks. He felt gangly; awkward. Not at all sure of himself in the face of Alvers’ unwavering confidence. “Which is?” he asked, and Lance smiled, leaned forward to bite playfully at the tip of Scott’s nose. 

” Underneath me,” he explained, voice a low promise, and Scott shivered again. 

Maybe Scott was tired of feeling so in control all the time. He wanted something, just one thing, to be easy for once. What would it be like, to just follow orders and trust that it was the right thing to do? To drift. To _let go_. To fade. 

“You say you’ll take care of me?” he hedged, cautious in wording. If it turned out this was some big joke... 

Lance’s smile gleamed proudly in the dark. “I told you: I take care of what’s mine.” 

A knuckle brushed Scott’s cheek, and he closed his eyes, accepting this, though it felt a little like reaching the top of a roller coaster and knowing it had no brakes. 

Lance smelled of lime and salt. He was very close now. “You want me to take care of you, right Scotty? You _want_ to be mine?” His voice dripped with temptation. He’d sensed the weakness in the other man, and he was coming in for the kill. Scott gave a tiny nod. 

That knuckle trailed over his cheek, and a hand slid into his hair. Warm breath hit his cheek. “Gonna need a yes or a no here, Scott,” Lance breathed into his ear, lips brushing the shell in a way that made Scott ache inside and out. 

“ _Yes._ ” It was barely a whisper, but it made Scott’s heart pound with his own daring. He turned his head, his nose brushing Lance’s cheek as he sought his mouth. Stubble rasped. His goggles were clunky. They’d always been awkward in these matters. He was out of practice and out of patience. 

When he found them, Lance’s lips smiled against his. A hand tangled in the hair at the back of his head, holding him like one might a pup’s scruff. Lance kissed him scorchingly, posessively, as though he already owned him. 

Scott wound his arms around Lance’s neck, giving himself over to the kiss. It was nice, this. The press and pull of lips on just the wrong (or right?) side of too-rough. All things feeling and nothing _thinking._ Lance seemed more than pleased over the whole ordeal, coaxing him with lips and tongue and teeth. Leading him. Showing him how he wanted to be kissed. 

“What do you want to do?” Lance asked him, touching their foreheads together and running a gentle thumb over his cheek. “About the SHIELD thing...” 

_You could tell me what I want,_ Scott thought hopefully. _Make all the decisions for me. You’ve always been an arrogant, bossy bastard._

Lance wasn’t having the silent treatment. “Scott,” he chided, lecturing, after their sliding mouths had become sore, turning sloppy. “You have to speak up, Scotty. I’m not gonna just take you. Can’t have you telling me you changed your mind later.” 

“What if I _want_ you to just take me?!” Scott burst out, annoyed. His eyes flew open to focus, frustrated, wanting him to just _understand._ “Can’t you-” 

Brown eyes lit up; eager, greedy. He wrenched Scott closer by the hips, knocking them sharply into his own. “You’ll join my team? Really?” 

“Just take me. Do what you promised. Make it happen. Make me yours. I don’t want to think about it anymore. I don’t want to think about _anything_ anymore.” 

Maybe Lance was finally zeroing in on Scott’s defeated tone. He frowned, used his hand in Scott’s hair to give him a sharp tug. “This ain’t a free ride, Summers. I’ll give you everything, but you have to return the favor. I want a strong, committed team-member who can follow my orders to the letter. If you think you can just get by being dead weight-” 

“You’ve got it. Anything you want.” 

Reassured, Lance softened. A hand slid up from Scott’s hip to his waist, following the curve of his ribs, curling around to his stomach. His chest. Lance petted him like he might stroke a prized show pony. “Poor Summers. You’ve had a hard time lately, huh?” 

Scott drank in the sympathy like a fine ale as he allowed himself to slump against Lance’s broad chest, steadfast and strong. He turned his face into Lance’s neck, sensuously trailing his mouth over hot skin, breathing him in. Lance made a small, satisfied sound. 

A sleek black van pulled alongside the curb, idling silently. To the untrained eye, it was just another car with tinted windows, but Scott saw the bulletproof sheen to the glass; the armor plated tires. 

He was pushed into the backseat. The tactful driver rolled up his window divider when Lance climbed in the backseat on top of Scott, twisting to slam the door shut behind himself. 

“Your Jeep…” Scott mumbled, just the littlest bit undone by the solid weight of another man on top of him. Underneath Lance, indeed. 

“I’ve still got her.” Lance quirked a gin; the same expression he’d practiced- and improved- since high school. “She’s just my baby on off-days; can’t handle the strain of a whole workload.” 

This was a relief to hear. Lance without his beloved Jeep would have been a sorry thing indeed. Scott, fresh out of fucks to give, arched an eyebrow and dared speak his mind. “You want _me_ to be your baby on off-days, too?” 

It was a bold thing to suggest. If he weren’t so emotionally dead, he’d have been mortified to hear it spoken in his own voice. He kept his hands harmlessly at his sides, taking a muted sort of pleasure in the surprise that crossed Lance’s face as he loomed over him. 

The driver apparently had no need for instruction, because Scott felt the rumble of the engine turning over beneath them, felt the rolling motion as they left the country club’s parking lot. Lance swayed a little before regaining his balance. Licked his lips. Regarded Scott shrewdly. 

“I’ll fuck you, Summers,” Lance finally stated, chewing his lip in thought. “As many times as you like. You’re hot, and I like sex, and I _really_ like taking care of what’s mine. But don’t go expecting wedding rings or matching boyfriend toothbrushes or whatever.” 

“I wasn’t.” This would not be a relationship of equality. Scott wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. He reached up. Tugged the collar of Lance’s white shirt. Pulled him down into another sloppy kiss and revelled in the feeling of Lance’s hair falling over his face, obscuring him from the world. “Now take care of me.” 

He didn’t speak again for a long, long time. Not as Lance trailed burning, stinging little kisses down his chin, sucking on his jaw as he did so, then licking a path down his throat. He didn’t use his teeth until after unbuttoning Scott’s shirt, but after his chest was bared, Lance was _all_ teeth. 

_Doesn’t want to leave a mark anyone can see,_ Scott realized, arching his spine and spreading his legs pointedly as nails scratched his ribs. _Shame or workplace decorum?_ He moved to stroke Lance’s hair back, and Lance immediately took both of his wrists in one gloved hand, pinning them down above Scott’s head. 

Ah. So it was like that? Scott didn’t mind.. 

There’d been a time when he’d fought his goggles being removed, but it wasn’t now. “Close your eyes,” Lance ordered, and Scott obeyed without question, unsurprised to feel them lifted from his face, appreciative when he heard them being set carefully in a cupholder. 

“You like that?” he asked, fingers flexing in Lance’s hold as he felt the belt to his pants managed with one hand. “You like having someone as powerful as me at your mercy, Alvers?” 

Lance gave a shiver at the words, his mouth open, his breath panting hot over Scott’s chest. 

“I could open my eyes and cause a hell of a lot of trouble,” Scott pointed out, pliant and relaxed as a palm ground over his erection through his underwear, thumbing at the damp patch forming there. 

“But you won’t,” Lance said confidently, voice deep in arousal. He was more worked up than Scott, and that was okay. It was nice to feel wanted. “Because I _told_ you not to.” 

“Mm,” Scott agreed blithely, drifting in the calm sea that was his mind. “Kiss me?” 

“Aw. Scotty likes being kissed during sex? Does it make you feel safe?” 

“Yeah. So make me feel safe. It’s your job now.” 

He expected more ribbing, more mockery- this was Alvers, after all- but felt only lips touching his, almost tender even as that dastardly hand between them tugged his underwear, as fingers trailed his cock. His hips gave a little twitch, and he parted his lips. 

Lance licked hotly into his mouth even as he gripped Scott’s cock in hand, stroking him firmly, using pre-cum as lubricant. When Scott broke the kiss by tilting his face to breathe, Lance kissed his throat instead. There was the occasional brush of teeth, revealing how badly Lance wished to bite, but he managed to refrain. 

“You can leave marks on my neck,” Scott pointed out. “I’m okay with it.” He considered. “Don’t you want people to know I’m yours?” 

Oh, _that_ made Lance growl, husky and rolling as he bowed his hips, thrusting drily into Scott’s hip. He liked the idea very much. Predictable. He was such a dog. 

“SHIELD discretion,” Lance said regretfully. “Fury doesn’t like it when we’re all marked up, and you don’t have rapid healing.” 

Scott was drifting again. It felt like he was in a little bobbing boat in the sea of his own mind, watching things happen from very far away. It was astoundingly calm and pleasant; what he’d been wanting for ages. The heft of Lance’s weight on top of him only added to it. 

“You gonna fuck me?” he asked. A suggestion, not a request. 

“Maybe when we get home.” Again, Lance sounded regretful. “I didn’t bring any lube.” 

“You didn’t think I’d say yes?” 

Lance laughed, honest and a hint incredulous. “I’m shocked you’ve allowed this much. I keep waiting for you to throw me off and demand I let you out.” 

“Would you let me?” 

There was a frown in Lance’s voice now. He stilled his motions, appalled. “Jesus, Summers; I’m not a monster.” 

Oh. A pity. Scott arched his back, taking another kiss. Hissing his dissent when the grip around his wrists loosened, relieved when it tightened once more. He pushed his hips into Lance’s hand. “Could still fuck me dry.” 

“I didn’t think you were a masochist.” 

“I’m not. But you could. I wouldn’t stop you.” Lance could have smashed his head in with a beer bottle and Scott didn’t think he had it in him to object. _Nothing. Fucking. Matters._

Lance withdrew his hand from between Scott’s thighs. A second later his goggles were being slid back onto his nose. Lance sat up. “That’s it. You’re freaking me out. What’s wrong with you?” 

Oh. He’d gotten weird again. Had put Lance off. He sighed, keeping his eyes closed so he didn’t have to look at Lance’s disturbed expression. “Sorry. Just gag me next time.” 

Lance laughed hollowly. “Any other time, I’d say a gag would be an improvement on you, but I don’t think that’s a good idea right now. I don’t fuck people I don’t trust to tell me no.” 

“Sorry,” he repeated. It left Scott’s mouth in a hoarse whisper. He turned his face into the seat, wanting this conversation to be over. Wanting to close his eyes and sleep until the world had forgotten him entirely, until the soft velvet of the seats rotted with his bones. “I won’t do it again.” 

Lance let out a frustrated sound-- a sound Scott was quite familiar with, coming from him. “You’re all fucked up, aren’t you?” he asked. “Like. Worse than everyone says you are.” 

At last, Scott opened his eyes. Looked up at the red-tinted Lance through the crystal of his goggles. Held very still, then said the words he’d been carrying with him for months: “I want to die.” Oh, what a relief it was to say them out loud, even if only to Alvers. 

Lance looked at him for a long time, his expression betraying nothing. Then he set his jaw and did Scott’s pants back up for him. He rolled down the divider to address the driver. “Change of plans,” he said. “Pull over.” 

Scott sat up, numbness and apathy pierced, a little, by some curiosity, some disappointment. “You’re kicking me out?” Lance must’ve decided Scott was too broken to be worth including on the team after all. Scott had told him as much; it wasn’t his fault Alvers never listened the first time around. 

“Like hell I’m gonna be used as the knife you stab yourself with,” Lance growled in response. “What, were you just gonna let me do whatever I wanted? Make you feel shitty enough to actually go through with it? What in the hell made you think I’d be cool with that?”

The driver, true to form, pulled to the shoulder of the road. Lance reached over Scott’s lap and pushed the door open. “There; you’re free. You need money for a cab? Maybe a fucking rope to hang yourself with?” 

Oh, he _was_ pissed. “I wouldn’t hang myself; please,” Scott sneered, trying to save face. “Have you seen a body after it’s been hung?” 

If he’d thought a little gallows humor would get him off the hook, it didn’t. Lance’s eyes flashed. “Get out, Summers. Don’t make me force you.” 

Oh, hell. He meant it. He really, really meant it. Scott didn’t know what he expected. “Fine,” he said, doing up the top buttons on his shirt. “Fuck. I don’t even know why I told-- I’m. Whatever. Bye, Alvers.” He swung his legs from the car, rested his heels on the pavement. Something was stinging in his throat; in his eyes. What had he wanted? Had he wanted help? 

Evidently, Lance was having similar thoughts. “Wait.” 

When Scott turned to look at him, he saw Lance had closed his eyes tightly, was pinching the bridge of his nose as though to stave off a migraine. He allowed Alvers a moment to gather his thoughts; tried to remain blank. 

"If you're determined to off yourself, don't do it on my watch," Lance finally said. "I _really_ do not need that on my conscious for the rest of my life, thanks. But--" 

A but? A 'but' sounded like another option. It sounded like hope. Sometimes, hope was more dangerous than certainty. 

"But what?" Scott asked cautiously. 

Lance chewed his lip, thinking. The glare he turned on Scott was fierce. No longer was he the fun-loving, affable guy from the bar. Now he was all Avalanche; the Lance Scott _knew._ It was oddly reassuring. 

"I'll help you on one condition. You have to fuckin' help yourself. You have to give me something to work with. I can't carry your corpse over the finish line." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, for starters, you have to promise me you won't kill yourself. Look me in the eye and swear it." 

Scott almost laughed. Oh, it was that simple, was it? "How can I promise something like that?" 

"You can promise it or you can get the hell out," Lance gave him a sweet, feral smile. "Up to you." 

"But I don't know what you _mean!_ " Scott protested, hearing the whine in his own voice. "How the hell am I supposed to know if I will or not? You haven't even told me your side of the--" 

Brown eyes seared his. Stubborn as a mountain, and just as immovable. Despite himself, curiosity cut through the haze. Was it such a small thing, then, that mere _curiosity_ could have him promising not to end his own life? He could always go back on his promise later; what could Lance do about it? 

"I'm scared to promise," he said. "Because words won't make anything better." 

"No," Lance agreed. "They won't. What do I look like, a fucking therapist? I said I'd _help_ you; not that I'd save you." 

"How will you help me?" 

"Make the promise, and I'll tell you." 

Completely unfair, was what that was. "I... promise." 

"Say the rest of it." 

"I promise not to kill myself on your watch." 

Lance glared at the blatant loophole, but let it slide. He reached over Scott's lap and closed the door again. "We're gonna get you some actual therapy. We're gonna get you out of the place that's making you miserable. You're going to eat actual food. Start sleeping; I could carry groceries in the bags under your eyes. All that good shit." 

Scott groaned. Somehow, he'd hoped for a more interesting, dynamic, immediate solution. Was it worth a promise for something so mundane? 

Lance shoved an accusing finger in Scott's face. "None of that. I know what I'm talking about. It's hard work, but it works." 

Oh, that curiosity burned on. " _You're_ in therapy?" He hadn't thought Lance was the type. 

Lance snorted. "I'm an orphan alcoholic with anger management issues. I've been in and out of prison all my life. What do you think? Fury forced me to start when I took the job." 

Charles had never once even suggested therapy to Scott. The most he ever got from the man were offers to repress or remove troublesome things from his mind entirely... Sometimes he feared Charles was doing so whether he accepted or not. 

"Do we have a deal?" Lance was relentless. "Because if you aren't going to do your part, you can get out now; you're not my problem. But if you agree, I'm not going to let you go. I'll be with you through all the shit you're in for." 

He meant it. The earnestness shone through every pore. In addition to his curiosity, Scott felt a distant hope. It seemed impossible when he thought about it himself, but if Lance really believed... 

"I'll try-" 

"Not good enough. Do it again." 

Scott groaned loudly, the old urge to punch Lance rising anew. "You drive a hard bargain, Alvers." 

"Yes, I do. Try again." 

( _I don't want to. I just want to die. It's so much easier to die. Just let me die, please..._ ) 

( _You asked for his help. You want to live, at least a little._ ) 

Scott exhaled, long and slow. His eyes prickled again, once more dangerously close to tears. "Okay. I'll... do it." 

Lance nodded, slow, considering. "Okay," he agreed. And that was that. He instructed the driver to continue taking them to his apartment. 

It was awkward. Scott closed his eyes, removed his glasses, and wiped the dampness from his face. Then he leaned, cautious and slow, into Lance's side. Lance was a sturdy support, and his arm was warm around Scott's shoulders. 

"Am I still part of the team?" he asked. Lance hummed, nails scritching gently at Scott's hairline. 

"You think that's a good idea? That's a lot of new stuff at once." 

Scott nodded frantically. "No, yeah, it _is_ a good idea. I need work. I need to feel... needed." 

Though his eyes were still closed, he heard the laugh in Lance's voice. "Yeah, same here. Workaholic, alcoholic, it's all the same thing at the end of the day." 

Lance almost certainly didn't want him anymore, not after he'd dropped how much of a mess he really was. There was no better mood killer. And still, when Scott ghosted his mouth over Lance's skin, Lance hummed in pleased response, took Scott's hand. His guitar-calloused thumb rubbed back and forth over his knuckles. 

It was peaceful. So peaceful that Scott nearly drifted off. Lance jostling his shoulder alerted him that they'd arrived. 

He slid his goggles back on and looked around, checking out the nondescript apartment complex. Lance slid from the car, waving at the driver, so Scott followed his lead. 

Following Lance to a first-floor door, he watched the other mutant unlock it. Maybe something new was all he'd needed; the novelty once more piqued his curiosity. How did Lance live? 

It was nowhere near as big, as fancy as Scott's apartment. Nor as well decorated, though that was mostly Jean's doing anyway. It was far more cluttered-- messy, even. Scott had been such a neat-freak that it'd driven his partner crazy. 

( _"Me leaving my sweater on a chair isn't going to kill anyone, Scott..."_ ) 

"-- the couch-bed, do you?" 

"Huh?" Embarrassed to have been caught zoning out again, Scott flushed. "Sorry, I'm listening now." 

"I asked if you wanted me to pull out the couch bed. I've got extra sheets somewhere." 

"Oh, no. The couch is fine. I'm too tired to care." He regarded the lumpy sofa; in the dim lighting, with Scott's red-quartz goggles, it could have been any color. Again: He was too tired to care. There was a television, though, and an elaborate gaming system. He peeked over Lance's shoulder at the small kitchen and resisted the urge to go and poke through all the cabinets. 

"Right." Lance looked around too. "Um. Well. If you're tired, I'll just. Go... Bathroom's the first door to the left. My room's the one next to it. You can have pretty much everything you want. We'll look into setting shit up in the morning--" 

_He thought we were going to have sex,_ Scott realized, understanding why this felt too awkward, too quiet. Lance hadn't expected there to be talking, to be planning, if his honey trap went through. The thought was almost endearingly funny. _What kind of agent are you?_

"We still can," he said aloud. "Fuck. If you want. I'm suicidal, not dead." 

Saying the words aloud, even in a jokey tone, seemed to make them real to Scott. To separate the illness from himself, as though he'd said _I'm cancerous,_ or, _I'm starving._ The thing that was wrong with him had a name, and it was not who he was. 

"I don't know if that's a good idea," Lance shifted his weight, looking away. "I really don't trust you to say no. I don't want you to see me as some sort of lifeline, either, or to mistake it for anything more than it is." 

"I can say no. I'm not an infant. Safe word is elephant; happy?" 

This got a grin out of Lance. "'Elephant'? Really? I'm surprised a boyscout like you even knows what a safeword is." 

Scott scowled, but was secretly pleased to be teased on the matter. At least Lance wasn't taking this _too_ seriously. "I'm just offering," he shrugged, trying not to show how eager he was. "It could be nice." Lance had, however briefly made, him feel alive. Feeling alive was a little addictive. That probably wasn't healthy, but, well. Was anyone _really_ healthy? 

Lance apparently was warming to the idea, which was a relief in itself. So Scott and his whacked-out brain weren't completely repulsive after all. "What did you have in mind?"

Well. They’d already done plenty of soul-bearing. Scott only reddened a little when he stared at his knee-caps. “I, um. I want you to tell me what to do.” It wasn’t the same as saying _I don’t know;_ or, _you decide._ Here, at least he was an active participant. That had to count for something, right? 

“Yeah?” Lance caught his chin, turned his face this way and that, appraising Met his eyes. “You like ‘em bossy, Summers?” 

“ _Yes._ ” The sound of his own, breathy sigh intensified his blush, and Lance’s grin. 

“Good. Don’t forget your elephants, though. I’ll be listening for them.” 

Scott hadn’t ever thought sex with Alvers would make him grin. The guy was just full of surprises. He let out a little startled noise as he was promptly knocked back on the couch, losing his balance. Before he could conceive a response, Lance was throwing a leg over him, sitting heavy and confident on his lap. 

“I love your lips,” Lance remarked, tone dirty, eyes flinty, tracing a finger down Scott’s jaw. Scott felt an excited shiver race up his spine. He leaned forward on the arm of the couch, allowing Lance to rub his lower lip with a rough thumb. It was so quiet in the darkness he could hear the brush of skin on skin. 

“Yeah?” Scott had to try twice to get the word out; his voice was hoarse. “You want me to do something with them, Alvers?” 

Lance grinned, long and slow. He gave Scott a light slap on the cheek where he’d been stroking him; hardly enough to make a sound, though the light sting gave Scott a buzz. “That pretty little face deserves to get fucked,” Lance growled, pushing Scott’s shoulder forcefully. “Get on your knees.” 

Oh, there was that blissful numbness again- no, not even _numbness_ , precisely. Scott lived with numbness; he could tell the difference. This was a _blankness_ ; a clean slate, giving him respite from his other feelings, lifting the burden for a moment. He gripped Lance’s hips, maneuvering him from his lap, then eagerly slid off the couch and knelt between Lance’s thick warm thighs. He eyed the bulge in the boxers before him: Alvers was excited too, then. He smelled musky; pleasant. 

“Pull my cock out,” Lance ordered, sitting against the couch like a king and spreading his legs wider. Scott did. It was heavy in his hand; long, skin several shades darker than Scott’s own. Alvers was uncircumcised, but erect enough for the dark head to have emerged from his foreskin. Nervousness began eroding Scott’s blissful emptiness… At least until Lance pressed on the back of his head, pulling him closer. 

“Haven’t you ever sucked cock before?” 

“No,” Scott admitted. He’d enjoyed giving Jean head immensely, but this was an entirely different set of equipment before him. 

“Haven’t you ever _gotten_ sucked off, then? Jesus, Summers, it isn’t rocket science. Cover your teeth and suck.” 

It _wasn’t_ rocket science, but he knew there was more to it than suck-and-cover. His mind again filled with a thousand plans of attack and at least a dozen reservations, but then that hand was back on his head, guiding him; all salt-taste and rubbery skin, and then it was hard to think at all. 

Applying what he knew he himself liked, combined with the awareness of his own limitations, Scott kept it simple, rolling his tongue in circles over the sensitive head . Lance’s encouragement spilled like honeyed wine down his back, cleansing and calming him as it went. Every time he did something to elicit a moan, he filed it away for future reference. He breathed hard through his nose and let out an embarrassingly loud moan when Lance fisted a hand in his short hair, rolling his hips, riding his face. 

“You like that, boyscout? You like having your skull fucked?” Lance was gasping, throat arching, biting his lip. “So fuckin’ pretty for me, aren’t you?” 

He wrenched Scott’s hair again for emphasis and laughed at the way it made Scott moan, rise up on his heels, leaning eagerly for more. It made his throat burn and bulge; it made tears pour from his eyes, pooling in his goggles, fogging them until he couldn’t see. His nose ran, too. 

“The things I want to do to you…” A finger brushed his hollowed cheek, and then Lance was pulling him up, grabbing his chin, sliding his length from Scott’s mouth. Scott whined at the loss. 

He didn’t have long to mourn it, though; Lance had him by the shoulders, had shoved him to the carpet, looming predatorily over him. He hauled Scott in by the throat to kiss him, licking his own taste from Scott’s mouth. He was everywhere. He was so _much._ Scott arched into it eagerly, returning his kiss, tangling both hands in Lance’s hair, squeezing his hips with his knees. His heart was doing crazy backflips and figure-eights, and he found he couldn’t help but to smile. 

Using his grip on Scott’s chin, Lance wrenched his face to the side, kissing down his cheek and jaw to his throat. “You are so pretty when you smile,” he admitted, sounding almost tender, and then stilled when Scott flicked startled eyes over to him. “What? Shut up. You are.” Almost grumpily he tugged on Scott’s goggles, tossing them aside when the other man closed his eyes. 

“What are you afraid I’ll see?” Scott asked. “That you actually like me?” 

“Don’t be stupid. I just don’t want you to see it coming when I punch you.” 

“Of course.” 

Lance weaseled an arm under his hips, bringing them close, rolling and grinding against him. Scott wriggled and squirmed to get out of his own slacks, the silk of his underwear. He smacked his head against something he strongly suspected was a Guitar Hero control. 

“Your place is a mess.” 

“Your life is a mess.” 

Touché. 

Lance nosed his ear, licking the shell before muttering, “Any elephants yet?” 

“No. I’m here. No elephants, but--” Scott squirmed, attempted to roll, and Lance let him. When he was on his hands and knees underneath Lance’s bulk, the Avalanche gave a little laugh. 

“Face down, ass up? That’s the way Summers likes it?” 

Scott flushed. But since he’d been asked-- “Yeah. It’s… I like being underneath you. I like your chest on my back. I like feeling how strong you are, feeling you everywhere. I like it when you make me yours.” 

The breathy sound Lance released at this was a little satisfying. As was the stubbly burn against the back of his neck where Lance mouthed him, then the scrape of teeth. Abruptly he was gone, leaving Scott to wrest off the remainder of his shirt, to wait shivering and naked for his return. Music started up; bass-heavy electronica, before something light and plastic dropped onto Scott’s spine. A bottle. 

“Lube for my pretty boyscout,” He, too, was bare when he knelt behind Scott, taking one of his hips in hand, dragging him back. Scott couldn’t help his shoulders stiffening a little when he felt Lance’s erection against his ass. “Scared?” 

“No. It’s… It’s not the first time. I like it.” 

This gave Lance pause. “You’ve never sucked a guy off, but you’ve taken it up the ass?” 

Scott felt his face redden so hard that his ears burned. “Are you calling me a liar?” He wasn’t about to tell Lance about the drawer of toys Jean had had at home. “I’m not getting into my dating history with you. Are you going to stretch me or am I doing it to myself?” 

“Alright, alright,” sounding affable, amused, Lance pulled the bottle from Scott’s back and opened it with a snap. “You clean, Summers? You cool with barebacking?” 

“Yes. You?” 

“I get tested regularly. You want to see the paperwork?” 

“Not especially.” Scott startled when something cold dripped off his ass and he realized Lance was drizzling the lube directly on his skin. 

“Shh,” Lance soothed, rubbing his lower back. He didn’t move for a long moment, and Scott had the distinct impression he was being watched. 

“You’re staring.” 

“I’m allowed to look at things that belong to me.” 

Something about this made Scott shiver, more present and weighty than he’d experienced in a long while. “Please touch me.” Though he spoke softly, he could hear his own trepidation in his voice. 

As though recalling what he’d said earlier, Lance pressed immediately to Scott’s back, all warm skin on skin, arms encompassing the expanse of Scott’s chest. He pressed his mouth to the nape of Scott’s neck, hands traveling down, stroking and feeling and memorizing. It was all very lovely; surprisingly tender, but very Lance. 

Scott spread his legs pointedly, and Lance huffed a laugh, hand dipping between Scott’s thighs. “You’re worse than Pietro. You’re allowed to just sit back and enjoy things for a while.” 

“Please don’t talk about him right now.” Scott hadn’t known Lance and Quicksilver slept together; he could happily have gone all his days without ever knowing. He allowed himself to be distracted at fingers catching in the slick of dripping lube, pressing soft and flat to his hole. 

Lance kissed his shoulder in what might have been an apology before twisting a finger to the knuckle inside Scott, causing the other man to hiss. “Fuck; you’re tight.” 

As Scott awaited a “tight-ass” joke that surprisingly never came, he did all he knew he was supposed to do. Breathed slowly. Relaxed his muscles. Leaned into Lance’s hold, trusting him as he was fingered open, as more lube was poured. 

“That feel good, pretty boy?” Lance asked after a time, when Scott made a low noise and began moving back against his hand, searching hints of pleasure. 

“I want your cock,” Scott said, reddening when he recalled saying the exact same thing to Jean. Now who was bringing old lovers into bed? 

Lance thankfully did not notice. He sat back, and a moment later Scott felt something blunt and large pressing him. He feared he wasn’t stretched enough after all, but Lance seemed to know what he was doing. He forced himself to stay relaxed, bracing his weight on his forearms. How odd, that he trusted Alvers in this, now that he was present enough to care whether it hurt. 

“Any elephants?” Lance asked again as he pushed inside of him, slow and careful. 

“None. Go slow. Take care of me.” The last was an afterthought, recalling the words Lance had spoken with such pride. It had the desired effect: Lance _moaned,_ low in his throat, and pushed all the way inside of Scott, heavy and stretched and so damn full; too full to disappear. 

Scott shifted, moved, but was trapped underneath Lance’s weight on his back. This was perfect. This was all he could have asked for and more. His cock dripped onto the carpet below him, and he let out a strangled huff of breath. He experimentally pushed his hips back into Alvers and was rewarded by a zing of sensation travelling up his spine. 

“Yeah,” Lance agreed. “Oh, fuck.” He gave a thrust of his own, trying to find a good groove. The heavy pounding of the base spurred them on. He pressed on Scott’s back until he was chest-down against the carpet before hauling him back by the hips, snapping into him, and Scott muffled a moan against his arm. 

“You look good, Summers,” Lance breathed, almost laughing as they found a rhythm. He must have drizzled more lube onto his hand because Scott felt it slicking him up further. “A nice fuckin’ view.” 

Scott, who could see nothing but the inside of his own eyelids, said nothing. Though he’d had no reason to do so before-- a silicone cock wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference-- he’d done enough research online to know to clench his internal muscles around Lance and felt very gratified to hear the other man curse and growl. He scrabbled for leverage, trying to meet Lance’s thrusts, but the grip on his hip, the hand on his back kept him near immobile. It should have been frightening, but it was just a relief. 

“You’re just going to take it, Summers,” Lance warned through clenched teeth. “And you’re gonna like it. You told me to take care of you. You told me you wanted me to call the shots.” 

“So you can use me like your very own doll?” Scott goaded, a little breathlessly. If he couldn’t move to rile the Avalanche, he still had his voice. “Put me in my place like you always wanted to?” 

“Fuck yes,” the moan was half hiss; all wavering. The loud slapping of skin-on-skin would have been unbearably embarrassing were it not for the music. Scott fought to keep his own rising whimpers at bay; they’d feed the man’s ego too much. 

Lance did _something_ \-- a rolling snap, expertly angled-- inside Scott that had him just about forgetting his small vow of stoicism and he cried out, fingernails digging into the carpet, back bowing. A moment later and Lance was doing it again. After that, he wasn’t cognizant enough to formulate any pretty banter at all. 

His untouched cock drooled wetly, twitching and shaking along with all his muscles; inside his thighs, along the meat of his spine. He begged, humiliatingly, greedily for more; for Lance. _I want all of Lance._ It was like flooding a dark room with bright lights, with enormous fans to blow away months worth of dust: suddenly, Scott could feel everything and nothing all at once. 

“Touch me more,” he begged, all discretion gone. “Alvers I need… I need you to--” 

The hands pinning him shifted; one round his throat, the other his waist. With a mighty heave, Lance dragged them both backwards and, still buried deep in Scott’s ass, took him on his lap. It took some scrabbling, some repositioning, but this angle was good, too, with Scott’s legs held open by Lance’s, the hand lightly compressing his throat a collar of ownership. 

The calloused hand that wrapped around Scott’s cock was less gentle. He gripped him hard and stroked him harder, almost folding him double. Fucked in one end and jerked on the other, the music boiling dark sin in his ears and Alvers’ teeth buried hard in the side of his throat. It was so much. It was everything. He came within seconds, messy and sticky all over himself, near-crying from the overwhelming intensity of it all.

Alvers held him still, again, as he pounded into him, leaving Scott with nothing but to tip his head back and ride it out, small whines jutting between panting breaths. He shook, but Lance’s hand stroking his arm kept him from rattling apart. Lance grunted against his ear as he finished inside of Scott. 

Scott couldn’t move. Physically, he’d have been able to easily, if wobbly, but mentally he felt himself withdrawing more rapidly than ever before. He went limp, listening to Lance pant in his ear. He himself was struggling for breath. 

They couldn’t stay still forever, though. “Gonna put you down now,” Lance warned, an arm around Scott’s chest as he carefully set him on the ground, as he slipped out of his ass. Scott winced at the sensation of warm cum sliding out of him, wetting his thighs. _That_ was an unfamiliar sensation. 

He didn’t move as Lance stood, walked away; listening to the sound of water running in the sink or when Lance returned, slid a hand under Scott’s head, and wiped the dampness from his face with a cloth. He cleaned between Scott’s legs, too. 

“You want your goggles?” 

Scott made a noise that was neither a yes nor a no, and Lance paused. “Elephants now?” he asked weakly. 

_Yes. Elephants now._ A whole herd of them. Like a giant plug had been pulled out of Scott’s brain and everything-- motor skills, the capability of speech, of feeling _anything_ was gone. He was empty, pulled inside out and collapsing inward like a dying star. 

Lance heaved a sigh. “Well, I can’t leave you down there.” 

_So don’t. Or do. Whichever._

Lance carefully collected him. Scott was too heavy to carry easily, so Lance stooped, gathered him in a fireman’s hold. A minute later and Scott was being set down on a rumpled bed-- Lance’s bed. He wished he could surface enough to tell the man that he needn’t worry; that this was normal. That he usually felt this way after sex. 

Lance disappeared again, returning a moment later to set something down with a click. “Your goggles are on the table to your left,” he said. “Can I sleep with you, or…?” 

_It’s your bed._

Lance turned to leave. The idiot was actually going to sleep on the couch or something, just because-- 

With a Herculean effort, Scott managed to protest, “Stay.” 

Lance paused. “You sure? I feel like I did something wrong here.” 

“Please.” 

Even the sound of springs bending under Lance’s weight as he slid into the bed seemed apologetic. Scott wished it were another way; wished he could be normal. He did the best he could, fighting against the current of his brain to reach and take hold of the closest skin he could find-- a wrist-- and pulled Lance’s arm over his shoulder. Lance took the initiative to slide closer, touching Scott’s back. 

“You wanna talk about it?” 

_I can’t._ He could, however, turn his face, kiss the side of Lance’s arm. It wasn’t enough. It’d have to suffice. 

# 

He woke slowly, sore all over with a warm weight draped over his back, soft breathing in his ear, and pieced together the night before. _Alvers._ It was almost funny. Hookups were just not his thing, but… This wasn’t a hookup, precisely, was it? It wasn’t as though he’d met some random stranger at a bar. Even if it never happened again (quite likely; he’d no doubt freaked the guy out) it wasn’t as though they could go back to being nothing to one another. 

He gently extricated himself from the embrace and felt blindly along the side of the bed until he encountered a side-table, then patted along that until he touched his glasses. He felt at least seventy percent more himself as soon as he wore those. 

Sitting up, he regarded the messy yet oddly plain room around him, the man on the bed beside him. He hadn’t gotten a chance to _see_ Lance naked before, but he wasn’t surprised; miles of muscled olive skin; bunches of scars that told a story. He was big all over, heavy all over, the occasional tattoo raising Scott’s curiosity, and looked about as harmless as a gangly puppy despite it all. Scott pulled the blanket from the floor and left it on top of Lance before standing, locating items of clothing that would likely fit him, and making for the bathroom. Showering in hot water eased the soreness from his muscles. 

Lance was waiting for him, seated on the sink with a towel and a coffee when he emerged. “Morning,” he greeted cautiously. At least now he was wearing sweatpants. 

Scott tried not to feel self-conscious as he accepted the towel and retreated back behind the curtain to dry off. “Good morning.” 

“Fury wants to know if you’d come by the office. Fill out some paperwork, answer some questions.” 

Of course Fury already knew. That’d probably been the first thing Lance did upon waking. “I can do that.” 

“Great. I’m gonna go out and grab some breakfast for us. Any requests?” 

Scott made a noncommittal noise, then jumped when the shower curtain was pulled sharply back. “Alvers!” 

“Are you done being weird?” Lance glared at him. “No, scratch that. Be as weird as you want; I promise I’ve had weirder. Are you done shutting me out?” 

Scott regarded him a while, holding the towel over his waist. “I’m doing the best I can do. I’m sorry.” 

“Hm.” Lance looked at him, steady and stubborn. Very much an Avalanche. “Is this going to come between us? You’re my team; my crew. I need to know what’s going on in your head.” 

That was-- the man wasn’t going to back down. “I get like that sometimes. Don’t think too much about it; it had nothing to do with you. I’m sorry; you don’t have to deal with it again; if you could just forget about it I’d be much obliged.” 

“You’re still mine?” 

“I’m still y-yours.” Scott looked away, cleared his throat. “Can I have some privacy, please?” 

Lance nodded. Retreated. A second later, the bathroom door shut. Scott dried, groomed, and dressed in silence. 

There was indeed breakfast waiting; hot croissants and coffee and eggs. Lance had already eaten and was watching the morning news while warming up, in much the same place as they’d fucked the night before. Scott surreptitiously watched his crunches and sit-ups, admiring the fact that Alvers had yet to don a shirt. What office hours did SHIELD agents work, anyway? 

Lance hopped to his feet and leaned over Scott’s shoulder, reaching for the coffee again, then stilled. Touched something on the back of Scott’s neck. “Damn,” he mumbled. “I left marks after all.” 

“You do bite a lot.” Scott felt a twinge of amusement, as well as a hint of relief that Lance was still willing to touch him, after all that. He resisted the urge to lean into his hand. 

“Yeah, yeah; laugh it up. Come on.” He tugged Scott’s arm until he stood, then lead the way back to the bathroom. Scott was bemused to see, beside the alarmingly extensive first aid kit, a collection of little bottles. 

“Is that makeup?” he asked, when Lance held first one shade of foundation next to Scott’s wrist, comparing colors, then another. High-end makeup, no less, in a variety of shades. He supposed it made sense-- they got beat up at their jobs. They couldn’t very well go out in public looking it half the time without someone calling a domestic abuse hotline. But… 

“Damn, you’re darker than she is. It’ll have to do until I can get you your own, though.” 

“She?” Scott tilted his head, allowing Lance to use a cotton ball to dab the cream on his neck with well-practiced ease. 

“Kitty. Yes, I have a biting problem. Are you done laughing about it?” 

… Scott reconsidered the shades before him. His goggles made it impossible to determine the actual colors of each product, but he could at least tell they ranged in shades. 

“You’re still sleeping with Kitty.” 

“Not often. She has a boyfriend more often than not.” 

Scott recalled his comment about Quicksilver the night before, his attention snapping to a golden-tan shade that might have worked on either Maximoff twin. “The twins, too?” 

“Well not at the same time, obviously. Wanda mostly to blow off steam; guys aren’t usually her thing.” 

So many other colors… Scott slowly, calmly felt himself going more than numb; going cold. 

“Are you sleeping with everyone on the team, then?” 

He’d never felt like a notch in anyone’s belt before. Interesting. 

Clearly, something in his tone set off warning bells in Lance’s mind. The leader looked up, meeting Scott’s gaze sharply in the mirror. “Is that going to be a problem, Summers?” 

“Of course not.” He had to stay frosty. If he didn’t, the humiliation and shame would come pouring in. What had he expected? Lance had never indicated otherwise. How was he to know that the mutants of SHIELD were all Lance’s collective harem? ‘You’re mine’ indeed. _Why shouldn’t I look at things that belong to me?_ Things. 

Scott was alright with being a thing. He wasn’t so sure he was alright with being one of many things. 

_It doesn’t matter. You’re done. You were done before you even started._

“I think I’ve got that, thanks,” he tried to pull the makeup and cotton from Lance’s hand. Lance resisted. 

“You’re colorblind. You can’t see where the bruise even begins.” 

“I’ll buy a turtleneck.” _Stop touching me now._

Lance resisted for a second longer, but Scott was just as determined. Finally he gave in with a huff, leaving his newest agent be. 

Lance hadn’t once lied, Scott reminded himself. It was he who was more the fool for assuming.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Scott actually goes to therapy and tries to have a social interaction. Yay, Scott!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This story is only going to be two chapters long," last-month me said with adorable confidence, conveniently forgetting that I'm incapable of writing anything without it becoming a giant monster.
> 
> (Please check out the updated tags, summary, and story warning.)

Amy Guthrie stood at just under four feet tall and, as far as Scott could tell, her completely hairless body was comprised entirely of stone. Round and gray like a boulder, she moved carefully through her office in what must have been a custom-made pantsuit, extending a hand for him to shake. She wore no shoes.

"Scott Summers," she said warmly, in a surprisingly deep voice for her size, squeezing his fingers gently. "It's lovely to meet you." 

Scott tried not to stare. He'd worked with visibly mutated people before-- hell; Kurt Wagner, one of his best friends in the world, was covered head to toe in blue fur and had a _tail_ \-- but Amy was definitely the most visibly mutated person he'd ever met. 

"You're Lance's therapist?" Scott asked. Alvers could have prepared him for the way she looked! 

"Nick Fury hired me to serve as the private therapist for SHIELD's mutant division back when he first recruited the original Bayville Brotherhood," Amy said smoothly, climbing with some difficulty into a low armchair. "That does cover Mr. Alvers, but doctor-patient confidentiality means that I can't discuss his sessions with you."

"Of course." 

They passed an awkward moment sizing each other up. Amy worked from her home, a small apartment in the heart of New York City. She'd filled her cheerily wallpapered workspace with multiple chairs of various sizes, and it was to these she inclined her head. 

"Sit anywhere you like, Mr. Summers." 

"Just 'Scott', please," said Scott, looking anxiously at all the options. What would his choice say about him as a person? 

He finally selected a wooden chair in the corner-- it provided a good view of the window, the door, and Amy, in case he needed to make a quick escape-- and then crossed and uncrossed his legs, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. Holding his briefcase on his lap and tucking his ankles underneath the chair alleviated his anxiety somewhat, and kept him from jiggling his leg. 

When he looked up, he saw Amy paging through a file folder-- _his_ file folder. He resisted the urge to crane his neck to see what was in there. 

After a moment, Amy looked up and smiled. "Alright," she said. "So, for a little ice breaking; you already know my name and what I do. I'm from the Bay area, but my family moved to New York when it became clear that's where the height of mutant activism was at. I believe you're familiar with my good friend, Hank McCoy?" 

Scott blinked in some surprise. "Professor McCoy? Yes; we've lived and worked together for years." The information forced him to relax, a little. Maybe that was the point. 

This made Amy's smile warm. "Can I interest you in some tea?" 

It didn't really feel like a doctor's appointment. It felt like making small-talk with an interesting person-- straining, especially since Scott hadn't much wanted to make small-talk with anyone lately, but not too alien or frightening. The topic did turn, inevitably, to Scott's current situation. 

"So I'm to understand that you're living with Mr. Alvers?" 

"Not 'living'," Scott was hasty to correct, stirring his tea. "I've been staying at his apartment for a few days as I figure my new job out. Um. In his couch bed." 

And why he felt the need to clarify _that_... If Amy thought that was an odd detail to throw in, she didn't react. "You're friends with him from school days?" 

Scott fidgeted. "I wouldn't say 'friends'." _Does trying to kill one another on a semi-regular basis count as friendship?_ "I was an X-Men and he is-- was-- a Brotherhood boy." 

"Interesting." Amy's moss-green eyes were piercing. "Tell me more about your time with the X-Men?" 

"It's my whole life," Scott said plainly, then corrected: "Was. _Was_ my whole life. Charles took me in after my parents were killed and my little brother went missing." 

Amy didn't inquire further about Alex, but she did make several notes in Scott's folder. "So Charles Xavier is like a father to you?" 

That wasn't quite right. Scott _had_ a father. He'd been old enough at the time of the accident to know that much, and Charles had never tried to be a father, not to anyone. But there weren't any easier words to describe his relationship with the man, so he shrugged. He knew, even if the words had never been stated, that he was special to the man. "I guess you could say that." 

"It does lead me to wonder, then," Amy said, tapping her small, round foot, "Why he never tried to intervene with or supplement your mental health. It sounds as though you've experienced significant trauma throughout your life. As a father with the resources to..." 

Scott didn't want to hear anyone, let alone a near-stranger, criticizing Charles. "I-- he didn't need to," he interrupted hastily, giving a smile. "Sometimes we had chats a lot like what you and I are having now. It served the same purpose." 

Something flashed in Amy's eyes. "Did he breach your mind, Scott? Perhaps examine or even alter your memories?" 

Scott's mouth went very dry. He felt his hands start to shake, so he clenched them tight between his knees. "Did Kitty Pryde tell you that?" He remembered, too late, that he wasn't allowed to ask about other patients' appointments. "Sorry." 

The one and only time he and Kitty had ever fought-- really, _truly_ fought-- was at her insistence that Charles was doing them all more harm than good; that he didn't have their best interests at heart. Shortly after that fight, she'd left. 

"That's alright, Scott. But it's interesting that you ask about Ms. Pryde. Is she a friend of yours?" 

"Yes." This was much easier ground to tread on. "We were teenagers at Xavier's together. She's been keeping tabs on me all year after--" It was hard to force himself to say it, but this was the Big Thing, wasn't it? This was what he was in therapy _for_. He forced himself to complete the statement: "After my partner died." 

Referring to Jean's death in such simple terminology felt beyond wrong. There was nothing simple about what had happened. 

Amy watched him with sympathetic green eyes. When he fidgeted, she reached for him, and he allowed her to take his hand, to squeeze it again. Funny, but he hadn't expected her to touch him outside of perfunctory greeting. He didn't mind it-- it was bracing. Reassuring. He squeezed her hand back. 

"Kitty was friends with your partner, too?" 

"Yes. Jean is-- was-- Jean went to school with us, too. You know how it is with muttie kids... Oh, sorry!" He didn't know Amy well enough to guess if she'd take offense to the slur. She didn't appear to, so he pressed on. " _Mutant_ kids." 

"You say that," Amy said, shifting forward on her chair. She was so small that even leaning like this, her feet didn't touch the ground. "But when you talk about the 'Brotherhood boys'-- Mr. Alvers included-- you speak as though there's some distance. They weren't 'tight-knit muttie kids'?" 

Well, jeez. She was asking the hard questions, wasn't she? Still, it hurt less than talking about Jean. 

"They... I mean. They were the _Brotherhood._ You know. Hoods? Delinquents? We worked together sometimes, but--" He floundered to explain. 

"Did you feel you were superior to them?" 

Heat flooded Scott's face. "There is no answer to that that doesn't make me sound bad," he finally managed to eke out, laughing a little to mask his blush. "I'm curious to know why this matters." 

Amy regarded him over her reading glasses. "Scott, you're now working in a special unit comprised almost entirely of people you have -- or had in the past-- serious disdain for. The way you talk about your new job sounds like you feel as though you're, and pardon my candor here, _'slumming_ it.' Do _you_ feel as though you're taking a step down in your life?" 

Wow. She'd managed to pick up all of that from his tone? What else was he giving away, not in words, but on his face, in his voice? After being closely involved with two telepaths, he should have been more used to having no room for secrets. 

"It was either step down or kill myself," Scott said, and even he heard the upset warble in his voice. He quickly ducked his head. Amy didn't need to get any more private information from his face. "I couldn't stand it anymore." 

Now it was Amy's time to fall quiet. "Scott?" Why did she have to keep repeating his name like that? "Scott, are you experiencing suicidal thoughts?" 

Scott said nothing. He didn't know how much he could reveal until she had grounds to throw him into a loony bin. 

When it became clear that he would not answer, she tried a different angle. "Do you think working for SHIELD will be easier than working for Xavier?" 

This, he could answer. "Not 'easier', but there's so much less pressure. I'm not required to be a leader, for one thing." And there weren't decades worth of expectations heaped on him here. There weren't dozens of mutants who kept waiting for him to _get better._ To be the same old Scott they knew from before. 

He didn't know if he'd ever be that Scott again. 

"You couldn't have just asked Charles Xavier to demote you from your position of leadership? Surely, if you two have been so close since you were a child--" 

"That's the problem. He has certain expectations for me, and I'm not able to fill them right now." 

"But you plan to eventually?" 

Again, he had to fall silent. Amy made a note in her records. 

The rest of the session seemed to hop all over the place like a confused grasshopper. They touched on many aspects of Scott's life, from his relationship with Alex to his opinions on psychiatric medication. They never delved too deep into any topic, and finally the hour was over. 

"I feel that today we've turned over some stones and found some things we'll be able to focus entirely on in the upcoming sessions. I'd like you to see me twice a week for the next few weeks, if you feel agreeable. For your homework, I'd like you to try and do something social with your new coworkers, and work on verbally sharing your feelings with them." 

He _didn't_ feel agreeable, but he was too polite to say otherwise. And Fury had said that therapy was a _requirement_ for working with SHIELD. Scott didn't have to see Amy-- he was welcome to find his own therapist-- but it was recommended he see one familiar with the mutant experience. He didn't know of any other openly mutated therapists in the area. 

Scott used the planner on his phone to set up a new appointment. Amy shook his hand again and saw him to the door. 

He didn't feel better. Wasn't therapy supposed to make people feel _better_? Mostly he just felt shaky and slightly violated, as though someone had just rooted through his underwear drawer for the hell of it. 

It was just dusk as he exited the building with thoughts of hailing a cab, and the light tap of a car horn caught his attention. 

He looked up to see a brightly smiling Kitty Pryde waving happily at him from the front seat of her eco-friendly smart car. 

Scott went to her as she rolled her window down. "Hey, stranger!" she greeted, bubbly as ever, and leaned out the window to kiss his cheek. He felt the sticky residue of her lipstick against his skin, but did not wipe it away. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked his friend-turned-coworker. 

"Kidnapping you." She popped the door-locks. "There's a chair at The Saffron Flower with your name on it." 

The Saffron Flower was a swanky restaurant that had caught his eye before, but had never actually been to before. "You made dinner reservations?" Scott asked. "Why?" 

Kitty patted the passenger seat impatiently, so he walked around the car to sit beside her. "To celebrate you joining the _team!_ " 

There wasn't enough room for his long legs in the little car. He moved the seat back as far as it would go and Kitty laughed. "Sorry. You're a lot taller than Jackson." 

"Jackson?" 

"My boyfriend." 

And what kind of a friend was Scott, if he didn't even know the name of Kitty's boyfriend? 

Maybe Kitty read this discomfort in Scott's face because she squeezed his arm. "You'll meet him tonight. He's a great guy." 

Already, she was reversing out of the parking lot and easing into New York traffic. At least her questionable driving skills had improved drastically since high school. 

"Funny," Scott remarked. "Last I knew, you were dating Lance. Last we talked about it, you were leaving the X-Men _for_ Lance." 

Even behind her oversized sunglasses, Scott saw Kitty's eyes fall, downcast. "I didn't want to lie to you," she said quietly. "But we _are_ spies, Strange spies operating in the public eye, but spies nonetheless. Sometimes what outsiders see is different than the truth." 

"I was an outsider?" 

"To SHIELD, yes." 

"To _you_?" 

She lowered her sunglasses to look at him. Her blue eyes were sympathetic. He didn't inquire further. _Of course. Of course._

"Who else will be at this dinner?" Scott asked, wishing he'd dressed up a little more than basic business casual. Kitty looked like a million bucks in a sleeveless blue cocktail dress and heels. 

"Hmmm... Jackson, me, Freddie -- Tro and Wanda are still out of town on a mission-- and Todd." 

Hearing her casually using the Brotherhood's nicknames for each other was _weird._ "I don't want to see Tolanski," Scott said firmly. Not after the crap he'd pulled for the past week. 

"Oh," Kitty waved his concerns off. "He's a sweetheart, really." 

"Kitty, please. Can't you just take me--" he started to say 'home', then corrected himself. "Back to Alvers' apartment?" 

God, though. He _needed_ to start apartment hunting, and soon. But that would mean hiring _movers_ and severing his lease for his and Jean's penthouse. It'd be more financially wise to sublet it, but God, who had that kind of energy? He was still existing in a kind of limbo, putting such responsibilities off as long as possible. 

_What am I doing? What sort of mistake am I making? Am I messing up my entire life, Jean?_

As always, if Jean could hear him, she didn't have an answer. 

"Scott, you've been holed up in that sweaty cave for _days,_ " Kitty groaned. "Look, I love Lance with all my heart, but you need to see some new faces, okay? You _need_ to get to know the team." 

And why, Scott wondered, wasn't _Lance_ coming to this dinner, if it was apparently a team gathering? For all Scott knew, he'd orchestrated the entire evening to get Scott out of his hair for a few hours. Maybe he'd even told Kitty where to find him. Come to think of it, he'd near insisted Scott shave and wear the new clothes they'd bought when he left the apartment that morning... 

_You're being paranoid, Summers. He's not that deep._

He reminded himself of Amy's advice to see more people. If nothing else, this would give him something positive to tell her the next time they met. 

Slumping back into his seat, he gave in with a long-suffering sigh. Kitty squeezed his knee in gratitude. 

"You look beautiful," he remarked belatedly. "I should have told you before." At least he could still make her smile. 

The Saffron Flower, dimly lit and smelling strongly of spice, was bustling with well-dressed yuppies by the time they arrived. Their party greeted them with smiles as they were led to a round back table. 

"Alright, Summers!" Todd grinned, waving at him from above a plate of paneer tikkas. As usual, he sat shoulder-to-shoulder with the hulking figure of Fred Dukes.

A thin, dark-complexioned man, taller than Kitty but shorter than Scott, nearly knocked over his water glass as he stood and offered Scott his hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Summers!" he said with an endearing, crook-toothed smile. "Jackson Hernandez; computer monkey for SHIELD." 

"Monkey--?" Scott blinked, allowing his hand to be pumped enthusiastically. 

"He works for IT," said Fred in his soft, Southern-accented voice. 

Huh. The thought of someplace as fantastic and flashy as SHIELD having something so mundane as an IT department shouldn't have been so surprising, but Scott had yet to have any sort of tour. "So you met Kitty through work, then?" 

"Sure did!" Kitty slung an arm around Jackson's waist, and he pecked her fondly on the cheek. 

Scott tried to imagine what their world must have seemed like to a human like Jackson. Even if Kitty weren't a mutant, she was a fairly well-known public figure and a media darling for her supposed 'romance' with Lance Alvers. Did that make Jackson feel insecure; inferior, even? Judging by the way he and Kitty nested together like dolls on a shelf, Scott supposed they were making things work out, but... 

A server came to collect their drink orders. When she left again, Scott saw that Todd was trying to catch his eye. 

"Hey," Todd said, leaning forward, golden eyes wide and earnest. "Somethin' I wanted to talk to you about-- I didn't hurt your feelings, did I? With that t-shirt thingy?"

Scott resisted the urge to cringe, to grind his teeth. His very first day at SHIELD, just as he'd left Nick Fury's office, he'd been heralded with confetti before a miniature t-shirt cannon deployed a handmade size-large featuring bold rainbow block letters that read, " **I Rode the Concrete Coaster** " and below that, some stick figures engaged in distinctly work-inappropriate activity. One of the stick-figures wore red glasses. 

Sickened with humiliation and anger, Scott had used the t-shirt as target practice while demonstrating his powers to Fury. 

Todd was looking truly contrite now. He may be older and more mutated than ever, but in him Scott still saw the tiny and semi-homeless teen, abused by Raven Darkholme and bullied by jocks, that he'd near set an entire school on fire once to help. His anger dissipated like so much mist. 

"It made me a little uncomfortable," he admitted. There; now he could tell Amy that he'd articulated at least one emotion. Homework complete. 

"Awww, don't feel bad, Scootaloo. Ain't your fault Sir Lancelot is a big ole ho-bag. You're not really one of the team until you've done him at least once. Watch out, Jackson; you're next." 

Scott stared blankly at the man, not sure which part of that statement to unpack first. 

Kitty made an annoyed sound as her boyfriend laughed good-naturedly, saving Scott from having to respond. "Todd, quit it. That's not polite dinner conversation." 

Todd held both webbed palms up in supplication. "Alright, alright. Just wanted to make sure there's no hard feelings so the bossman quits bustin' my balls." 

Well now. 

"Lance asked you to apologize?" Scott asked, trying not to sound as interested as he suddenly felt. 

Todd snorted, helping himself to more paneer tikkas. "Are you kidding? He _yelled_ at me. Said you were going through enough shi--" he glanced at Kitty's reprimanding expression "-- stuff. Can you tell him to lay off a little? I hate being on his bad side. Sheesh; usually _he_ can take a joke." 

"Sure." Scott felt a little lightheaded, and he thought it was more than the sudden sugar of his soda clashing with his empty, growling stomach. Lance hadn't let on once that he even _knew_ about the little bout of hazing. 

He was so lost in his thoughts that he forgot to look at the menu and scrambled to make up for his error when the server returned. Feeling like a buffoon, he told her, "I'll just have what she ordered," and inclined his head towards Kitty. 

Under the table, Kitty's small hand slipped into his, giving him a squeeze. Her fingers were chilly from holding her water glass, and he held on tight until they warmed. 

"So Scott," Jackson said warmly, leaning forward to address him. Scott guiltily let go of Kitty's hand, wondering if it was a faux pas to keep holding on while he spoke to Jackson. He wouldn't have wanted another man to be holding Jean's hand, but Jackson didn't seem to mind. He swept his floppy dark hair out of his brown eyes and gave a dimpled smile. "Brown university, huh? That's pretty cool. I went to MIT." At Scott's surprised expression, Jackson admitted, "I was the one who entered your files into the system." 

"MIT?" 

"Before he got kicked out, you mean," Kitty muttered under her breath, giving her boyfriend a cheeky grin when he pouted her way. 

The five launched into a long-winded tale of Jackson's attempts to hack into the pentagon that surprisingly had Scott in stitches, positively _wheezing_ with laughter by the time their food arrived. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled so much, and so genuinely. 

"Guess you like troublemakers, huh?" he asked Kitty thoughtlessly, and then wondered if he should have kept his mouth shut-- if even referencing her dating history was somehow inappropriate. 

"I must, or I wouldn't put up with all of you yahoos," Kitty said, unbothered, and smacked Fred's hand away when he playfully reached to steal a dumpling off her plate. Then, sweetly, "Yes. I love my boys and Wanda. They make me so happy." 

Jackson's smile didn't so much as waver. He hailed the server, muttering something mysterious to her, and a minute later she arrived with a tray of drinks, passing them out amongst the table. Scott smelled the alcohol under the sweet, creamy aromas in his glass. 

"First round's my treat," Jackson grinned. 

" _Only_ round," Kitty corrected. "We have work tomorrow, bub." 

For some reason, Kitty calling her boyfriend Logan's favorite term of endearment made Scott laugh so much he nearly snorted his drink. This was good-- maybe Amy was right; he just needed to get out more. 

"Do you guys live together?" Scott asked Fred some time later, and he nodded. "Me 'n Todd," he said. "Sometimes Wanda. We've got a little house. It's a long drive to work every day, but we need the space." 

"Everyone's lived with us at some point," Todd explained. "Even Tro. Fury calls it the 'mutant haven' cuz it's where he sent Lance to sober up back when--" 

Kitty shot Todd a _look,_ and he about tripped over his tongue. "I guess that's not my story to tell," he said apologetically, indicating his empty glass. "Sorry. I'm a bit of a lightweight." 

Fred slung a heavy arm over Todd's shoulders, dragging him into a half-hold and leaning his head sideways atop the much smaller man's. Instantly some of the manic, bouncing energy that always seemed to surround the toad stilled; he relaxed so completely it was as though he'd temporarily fallen asleep. 

"You're _my_ lightweight," Fred said, quiet and rumbly, and Scott had to look away. There was something intimate about the moment that he doubted he was meant to see. 

_Yours. Mine._ Was that the way it was with all of them? 

Suddenly, Scott felt very tired. Maybe he shouldn't have had that drink. He wished, not for the first time that week, that he had his car with him so that he could leave. Go home. Be comfortably quiet and sad by himself. Happiness was only a distraction from the inevitable crash, and he'd about used up a month's reserves in one swoop. 

He didn't know how long he stayed quiet, trapped in his own head, his own brain fog, before Kitty was jostling his shoulder. "Scott, honey?" 

"Hm?" 

"I'm getting tired. Is it okay with you if we go home now?" 

"I--" caught off guard, Scott stuttered. "Um. Of course?" 

"Aw," Todd pouted. "Before desert?" 

"You can stay." Kitty reached across the table and pinched Todd's cheek until he laughed and batted her hand away. They boxed up their leftovers. Jackson counted out a stack of cash from his wallet to pay for his and Kitty's meals, and Scott made to do the same, but Todd waved him off. 

"I'll cover you. I know I owe you one." 

Again, Scott didn't know what to say aside from an awkward, "Alright. Thank you, Tolanski." 

They said their goodbyes and left. Jackson, who had bummed a ride from work with Dukes and Tolanski, took the keys from Kitty's hand. 

"You got to sit next to Newbie on the way over; now it's my turn. Into the back with ye, woman!" Jackson said, and Scott looked sharply at him. If he thought talking to Kitty like that was acceptable... 

But Kitty was giggle-snorting, like this was some ongoing inside joke. When she reached to flick the back of Jackson's head, Scott forced himself to relax. _Alvers is right. You_ do _have a stick up your ass._

He felt even better when they were all inside the car and Kitty phased her arm through Scott's seat, taking his hand again. Maybe the two were just that comfortable with each other. He rubbed his thumb absently over Kitty's wrist as Jackson drove. 

"Do you need instructions?" 

"Nah, man. I know where that punk lives. C'mon-- shotgun has to be DJ; it's The Rules." 

Jackson plugged his phone in with the aux cord and passed it to Scott, comfortably driving with one hand, and Scott's anxieties flared anew as he scrolled through the other man's iTunes profile. What if he chose wrong...? He hit a song at random, and neither person in the car seemed disgusted enough to throw him out and make him walk home. 

_Would you fuckin' relax, boyscout?_ A voice that sounded alarmingly like Lance's rang in his mind, and Scott forced himself to breathe. Now it was Kitty's turn to rub her thumb over his knuckles. 

"Thank you," Scott remembered to say when they were almost home. "For getting me out of there. It was getting to be a bit much." 

"We get it Scotty," Kitty promised. "We get _you._ " 

"Can I see your phone?" Jackson asked, when they'd parked beside Lance's Jeep. Scott handed it over, and the smaller man punched his phone number into the contacts. "Seriously dude. Text me any time, day or night. I'm a caffeine-addicted insomniac, so chances are I'll answer." 

Scott, feeling a mixture of warmed and embarrassed (what had Kitty been _telling_ this guy?!) smiled and nodded. He stepped out into the night, and waved as the pair left. 

Lance's apartment building was both low security and low profile. Jean would have thought it 'trashy' but, Scott supposed, it was suitable for a semi-famous spy trying to keep a low profile. Still, he did sometimes wonder why someone who earned as much money as Lance did never bothered to upgrade his living situation. 

It was a ground floor apartment, so at least he didn't have to climb the rickety outside staircase when he ducked under the alcove and knocked on the door. (Lance had yet to make him a key. Maybe he never would. Maybe it was a hint that Scott should get out as soon as possible. Maybe...) 

Nobody answered. 

Scott huffed an annoyed breath. He knew by the Jeep's presence that Lance was home. If the idiot had fallen asleep listening to music again-- 

He knocked harder. He was still knocking when the door wrenched open at a speed that made him flinch and take a battle stance. 

"Well good _evening,_ Scott Summers!" 

Pietro Maximoff, five feet, eleven inches of lean sprinter's muscle, gave him a brilliant and very toothy smile. Everything about him from his silver hair to his sharp blue eyes to the cool undertones in his olive skin was set to shine in the low apartment lighting. He was all leg, a fact that was not helped by his attire: he wore nothing but one of Lance's ratty band t-shirts. 

Scott stared, caught himself staring, and then looked fixedly over the man's shoulder. "Kitty told me you and your sister were still on a mission." 

"Hmm, did she?" Pietro leaned his hip against the doorframe, not moving aside to let Scott in. His usually well-groomed hair was messier than Scott had ever seen it. 

Scott said nothing, wondering if this was some odd sort of power play. Quicksilver had always been an enormous piece of work, maybe even more so than Lance himself. 

Luckily for him, his attention span was infinitely longer than Magneto's youngest child's. All he had to do was stand quiet and numb long enough, and the game lost some of whatever fun it held for the other man. Pietro dropped his posing, but not his smirk. "Good thing I can run _really really_ fast, then, Summers," He moved aside just enough for Scott to squeeze inside. 

Lance's jeans were in an empty heap on the floor leading to the hallway, close to the patch of carpet where Scott and Lance had slept together not eight days prior. The light from Lance's bedroom was bleeding through the crack of the closed door, and Scott smelled cigarette smoke. 

Scott cultivated his numbness, holding it indirectly like he might a soap bubble as he stepped into the kitchen-- the kitchen which he'd cleaned the night before because he couldn't stand the mess a moment longer-- and put his bag of leftovers in the refrigerator. He then turned and, still ignoring Pietro, made for the guest bathroom. 

The shower was maybe the only place here that he could really be alone. If it bothered Lance that his houseguest took two, sometimes three showers a day, he had yet to say anything about it. Scott carefully unbuttoned his shirt and hung it on the towel rod for the steam to iron any wrinkles, looked at the bottles of shampoo and soap to memorize their locations, and was about to remove his goggles when the door pushed open again. 

"Scotty," Quicksilver protested. "Quit being so antisocial. We haven't got a chance to talk in _years!_ " 

"Did we ever have anything to talk about?" Scott made the mistake of glancing at Pietro's reflection in the mirror and saw the speedster blatantly looking him up and down, eyes lingering over the muscles of his back. Scott resisted the urge to pull his shirt back on. Pietro's fox-smile grew sharper, fully aware of how uncomfortable he was making the former X-Men. 

"I think we do," he lounged, again, against the doorframe. Scott bitterly wanted to ask whether his puppet strings had been cut, if standing up straight was that much of a hardship. "You and I have more in common than I _ever_ could have imagined." 

Lance's voice from the nearby bedroom called tiredly, "Tro, knock it off." 

Quicksilver's pout redoubled. He shifted, smooth legs stretched to full display. "I'm just playing with him." 

"Summers doesn't like to be played with." Lance's voice was closer now. In a second he'd appear in the doorway, too. 

Scott did not want to deal with the two of them cornering him in the bathroom, but didn't have it in him to protest, to push Quicksilver out and shut the door in their faces. What good would it do? He'd gotten himself into this situation, and now he had to deal with it. He took a deep breath and imagined his numbness settling over him like a shroud, like a sheen of thin frost on a lake. 

When he opened his eyes again, Lance was watching him from the doorway, too, with Pietro now propped like an accessory against his broad chest. At least _he_ was wearing clothes: sweats and a t-shirt, his long hair knotted up in a messy bun. There were still some small mercies out there. 

"Hey," Lance said softly. Mother of God, his voice was hoarse. Scott tried very hard not to consider why. Tried not to watch the way Lance's thumbs rubbed small circles into Pietro's upper arms. "How'd your appointment go?" 

Scott abruptly felt so tired he could barely stand. "It was fine," he replied, clipped. "Now if you don't mind--" 

"Right." Lance took Pietro by the narrow waist, tugging him gently out of the doorway. Shockingly, Pietro didn't resist. He even closed the door behind them. 

Scott turned the shower on full blast until the sound of hot water hitting tile drowned out everything else. He stripped down and removed his goggles. He stood still under the pounding spray for so long that the heat ran out; then the warmth. He didn't climb out again until he was shivering. 

_You did this to yourself, Summers. You made your bed. You can damn well lie in it._

By the time he emerged, Quicksilver was gone. 

Scott stood in the hallway dressed in a spare pair of Lance's pajamas, hair still dripping, watching in some surprise as Lance tugged the sheets over the sofa-bed and fluffed out his pillows. Usually, Scott did this part himself; had for the past week. 

"You look tired," was the only explanation Lance offered when he saw Scott watching him. "Did the guys wear you out today?" 

"You don't have to assign babysitters for me if you want to sleep with someone," Scott said pointedly. "I could have found something else to do tonight. Don't bother to set up dinners for me next time." 

Lance shot him a frown. "What? I didn't set anything up. I just told Kitty when your appointment ended because she said she wanted to hang out with you. Are you okay?" 

"Peachy. And you're right. I _am_ tired, so..." 

This was the awkward part-- kicking Lance out of his own living room so Scott could get some sleep. Lance had a large TV and plenty of games out here; maybe he resented being unable to access them. He hadn't complained about it yet, but... 

Lance went off to the kitchen, and Scott, relieved, climbed into bed, reaching to turn the lamp off. 

"Don't take your goggles off yet," Lance warned, and internally Scott groaned. _What now?_

He listened to Lance rattle around, heard the distinct beeping of the microwave before Lance slumped out again, two steaming mugs in hand, and flopped down in the bed next to Scott without asking. 

"What are you doing?" Scott asked, when one was passed to him. He smelled the cocoa; saw half-dissolved clumps of powder clinging to the sides of the mug. "Did... Did you just make me hot chocolate?" 

"Tro brought some." Lance shrugged and took a sip of his own. "I thought we could talk." 

Scott didn't want chocolate, or to talk. He wanted Lance to _leave_. 

He deeply tried to ignore the treacherous part of himself that wanted to lean into Lance's side when their shoulders brushed. 

He pulled away, trying to be subtle about it so Lance wouldn't notice. _You're not a dog,_ he reminded himself, taking a too-long sip of the drink with the intent of scalding his tongue. Maybe the burn would keep him focused. 

"Did he really run all the way from wherever his mission was held just to bring you hot chocolate?" _And to hook up?_

Lance laughed. "He didn't tell me much, but I get the feeling the mission's too boring for his tastes. Lots of diplomacy, not enough action." 

_So he found some 'action' with you?_ "Wouldn't you know?" Scott pressed, curious despite himself. "You're his-- our-- boss, so...?" 

"Sometimes we're sent on missions for our specific skill-sets. Sometimes Fury has personal missions for us. I don't know the details of those, and I won't unless they need backup." 

This, Scott wanted to discuss more of. _This_ was interesting. Apparently, Lance wasn't feeling it, though. "Enough about that. Lets talk about you." 

"I'll look into getting a downtown apartment as soon as possible." That hadn't been what he'd meant to say, but it was an acceptable response. Maybe it would deter Lance from lecturing him. 

Or not. 

"What?" Lance's eyebrows crept together. "Uh... I mean. Cool, I guess? You need some help doing that?" 

"No. Thank you." 

Lance watched him, considering, for a long moment. Scott stared into his drink and tried not to give anything away. The knuckle brushing his cheek came out of nowhere; he spilled hot chocolate on his wrist as he jerked in surprise. 

"Hey," Lance laughed. "Easy. It's just me." He took Scott's arm, bent, and licked the chocolate off his wrist in a broad sweep of tongue as though it were a perfectly normal thing to do. 

This time, Scott made no pretense of normalcy when he pulled away. "Don't." He'd meant to sound commanding; authoritative. He managed only a sharp bark-- something a frightened mutt might utter. 

Lance lost his smile, even as he hastened to give Scott his space. "You _are_ upset," he said. "Why won't you tell me why?" 

_Because you wouldn't care. Because you'd think it was stupid. Because it_ is _stupid._ "Do I need to be upset to not want you _licking_ me?!" 

"No," Lance agreed. "You're right. I'm sorry. I thought that you'd be okay with palling around a little. I was being pushy-- it won't happen again." 

He meant it, too. That was the strangest thing. Maybe Scott could try to meet him halfway. 

"Your definition of 'palling around' is weird to me. I don't cuddle Kurt. I've never kissed Kitty. I don't think I've ever licked _anyone._ " Then again, hadn't Kitty kissed his cheek tonight, and held his hand? Somehow, doing those things with an old friend seemed a far cry from being licked by an enemy who'd recently seen him naked. 

"So who _do_ you do that stuff with?" 

Maybe Scott's lack of response was answer enough. And maybe Lance was more perceptive than he seemed. 

"Did it bother you that Tro came over?" 

Scott wanted to deny it frantically. To save his pride in whatever means possible. _No, Alvers; I'm beyond cool with you running a harem of superpowered mutants. Why should it bother me to be one of your slavering hoard?_

He kept silent. He stayed turned away, staring at nothing. 

"Summers, I told you we wouldn't be boyfriends. Do you want me to spell it out for you? I love my team. Sometimes I sleep with them, if they feel like it. Usually we don't. I'm having a really hard time figuring out why this is such a problem for you...?" 

"I _know_ you did!" Lance had barely finished his thought before Scott was bursting in; irritable, defensive. "Did I say a word about it, Alvers?! But you just have to pick, pick, pick, at sore spots. What, I'm not allowed to keep anything to myself?!" 

"I didn't know it was a sore spot! How could I know?! How can I know when you don't tell me _anything_?!" 

Oh; it had been a long time since Scott had last experienced one of Lance's rumbles. The TV on the stand rattled; the games in their cases shimmied, clacking metal and plastic. In the kitchen, a (thankfully also plastic) cup rolled off the sink and landed on the floor, spilling water. The lamplight flickered. 

Lance stopped it as soon as it'd begun. Clearly, his self control had improved since they were teenagers. 

Scott heard Lance forcing himself to breathe carefully, measurably, through his nose. When he risked a glance at him, he saw that Lance's eyes were closed tight, and he appeared to be counting, silently, to himself. Maybe therapy _had_ helped Lance. 

Suddenly, Scott felt bad for pushing him to an emotional extreme. When Lance opened his eyes again, Scott decided to give, a little. "You and your team are close. In ways I can't be with other people. I don't understand it, and I don't think I ever will. I don't want to share my every thought with you. Mostly, I keep things to myself." 

Funny; with one telepath as a mentor and father figure, and another as a romantic life-partner, Scott hadn't ever needed to verbalize things like that. They just took what they wanted from his head whether he liked it or not and, well, that was that. 

"My team..." Lance fiddled with the frayed end of Scott's blanket as he thought. "We're like a pack of wolves." 

Scott had often thought of the Brotherhood as animals in their youth. He could get behind that comparison. "How so?" 

"Everyone has their role. Everyone knows their place. Everyone loves each other. We all take care of each other, in whatever way we need. It's always been us against the world, you know? And... and now you're a wolf, too, and I'm trying to do wolf-things with you and you're making it _really_ hard." 

That was an oddly eloquent and informative way to explain it. Scott supposed Lance was the leader for a reason. 

Alpha wolves also, Scott was fairly certain he'd seen on a few late-night nature documentaries, took several mates within a pack as both a symbol of status and a means to keep conflict down. 

"I don't know if I can be a wolf, Alvers. I don't know if I belong in any pack." 

“But I want you to. I want you.” Lance looked at him so plaintively that, for the first time, Scott was left in doubt. Was there more to this than Lance just acting on orders? Lance recruiting another mutant for his team, and whatever their plans might be? Sure, Scott was broken, but even a broken toy like him was still powerful. 

But Lance was treating this like it was, somehow, personal. 

He and Lance regarded one another for a long moment. When Lance’s lips brushed his, Scott did not pull away. Not right away. Not when knuckles curled into his shirt collar. Not when a hand took his mug from him, setting it aside. Not when a thumb grazed the plane of his cheek, or when Lance shifted to hold him like he was something special, like he _mattered._

It was so easy to fall with Lance Alvers and still feel like he was flying, right up to the point where he crashed and Lance sailed onwards, unscathed and unaware. 

Scott stopped him with a palm on his chest-- pushing, but not harshly. “That’s enough,” he said, and was pleased when his voice came out steadily. “You-- you need to stop that.” 

Lance did. Pulling back so only their noses touched. Breathing each other in while Scott struggled to gather himself. 

“Summers--” 

“I’d really like to be alone now, Alvers. _Please._ ” 

He had to give Lance credit for this: he did not linger. Did not complain. He did skim his fingers chastely over Scott’s blanket-covered side as he turned the lamp off and went to his bedroom, but that was it. 

Then it was just Scott and his thoughts, and maybe that was more dangerous than any handsome Greek mutants with soft hands and wandering eyes could ever be. 

# 

He lasted as long as he could before slipping out into the night, having dressed as quietly as he could to avoid interrupting the soft, pleasant snores he heard from Lance’s bedroom. His shoes-- sneakers he’d bought on a whim when he picked up clothes for work a few days prior-- were the last to come on; he slipped those onto his feet before sneaking from the door. 

He had a cell phone, but he didn’t turn it on, instead opting to walk two blocks over where a grocery store still sported wall-mounted payphones. After that, it was just a matter of waiting for a cab. 

New York was never still, not even in a relatively forgotten little strip mall-slash-grocery store parking lot. People bustled about, and maybe it was the lateness of the hour, but something sinister emanated from their mere presence. Pure habit had Scott opening his mind, picturing the pink gyrus and sulci of his brain opening to make room for another, but of course there was no Jean to settle into place, to blanket his mind in comforting thought. To keep him from anxiety or disassociation. 

It was just him inside. He was alone. 

From his pocket he withdrew his phone, thumbing at the plastic case. Thinking of another telepath who could-- who _would_ make things better. Charles had never suggested removing Scott’s memories, and Scott had never asked him to… But the temptation was always there, a lighter form of suicide that could, potentially, fix everything faster than any therapist telling him to do yoga and eat his vegetables. He pictured himself making that call: 

“ _Charles. Please. I need you to fix me. I'm sorry I didn't let you do it sooner. Please, please, ple--_ ” 

The arrival of the cab, the slightly gritty sound of heavy tires rolling around and around, had him looking up, phone temporarily forgotten. 

“You are Mr. Summers?” the driver asked. 

“I-- yes. That’s me.” 

“You’re asking for a long ride, boyo. Doubt I’ll get any return trip neither.” 

“I have cash.” 

“Good enough for me.” 

He didn’t want to talk, and for that Scott was grateful. Maybe twenty-nine year old men wearing strange glasses and asking for a ninety-minute drive at two in the morning tended to be the quiet sort. 

He sighed, pressing his forehead against the window when his apartment came into view. Such a modern building; cube-like all chrome and glass; bright lights and carefully tended greenery. Of course Jean had picked it out. Of course Scott had gone along with it. 

( _Have I ever had an original thought in my life? Have I really ever wanted anything, besides her?_ ) 

He paid the cabbie, tipping him generously enough to silence his grumbling, and then he was punching in the access code and breathing in the familiar scent of home all the way up the glass elevator and to his front door. 

Without Jean to take care of them, her many potted and hanging plants had withered and died within weeks, with Scott watching helplessly all the while. Finally the landlord, in a fit of pique, had thrown them all away, complaining of the stink. Scott hadn't done a thing to stop her. 

As always when he walked inside, he stared at their empty pots and baskets until his numbness settled over him, comforting in its familiarity. 

"Hi, sweetheart," he said tiredly, touching the back of Jean's favorite chair as he tossed his keys onto the table. The apartment did not answer, so he went into his bedroom and slipped a vinyl Beatles LP onto the gramophone. Then he surveyed the bedroom. 

He'd told Lance he would move, and so, he supposed, he had to. That would mean packing his things. He could do that much, right? 

Not without a drink, though. 

Half an hour later he was comfortably buzzed and kneeling in front of his dresser, removing and folding clothes. He'd gained some weight in his lethargy, so it was easy to sort through and bag what no longer fit to be donated. 

Every time he opened one of Jean's drawers by accident, he cringed and closed it again. "Sorry," he said to the empty apartment. "So sorry, sweetheart." 

Once upon a time, the haphazard way she stored her delicates had driven him crazy. He would always wait until she'd left the room to re-align the silky slips and panties and bras with their skinny, snaky straps getting all tangled, organizing them until they looked magazine-perfect. Now, just glimpsing the messy heap brought a lump to his throat. 

_I can't do this._

What alternative was there? Hiring a stranger to help? Recruiting some of their friends? That'd be a cheerful phone call. Maybe starting with something that belonged to the both of them would be easier. He hesitated a second, then pulled open the thinnest drawer, top and center, nose twitching at the dust that rose. 

Their collection of sex toys had sat dormant for over a year. It felt strange looking at them now, as though he were regarding insects pinned to a board. He felt no desire; no attachment; nothing. They'd spent several hundred dollars on this collection, but it wasn't the sort of collection someone could donate-- and if one _could,_ Scott didn't want to think about it. One by one, he lifted each item out. The battery-operated toys, he unscrewed at the base, putting the batteries in a separate bag for safe disposal. 

He couldn't donate them, and he couldn't see himself ever using them again. That piece of him had died right alongside his partner-- hadn't been woken again until he'd had Lance's mouth on his skin, and, well. That, he would address later. He certainly couldn't keep them. He knew he was holding on too tightly, but even he had limits. That left one final option. 

One by one, every item was dropped into the trash bag. 

He didn't so much as pause his keelhauling until he came to Jean's strapon harness, custom made to fit her. The memory of how she'd looked-- hips wrapped in straps red as blood to match her heels; cock hanging heavy and thick between her freckled thighs-- evoked in him feelings, not of lust, but of longing. He wanted. _Wanted_ her-- in any way, in every way. To bury his face in her lap. To feel her fingers in his hair. To hear her voice in his mind. 

_Jean, Jeannie, sweetheart, please. I can't do this anymore. I can't do anything anymore._

What happened to a leader when he lost the one who led _him_? 

His hands shook as he ripped his glasses off; rubbed at his eyes. Forced himself to remain in the present. To hear the music, and to think of nothing else. 

He kept his head down and focused on sorting his own belongings after that-- hour after hour, his back straining from his hunched position, until the rising sun had lightened the sky. 

A distant chiming forced Scott out of his mindless drudgery, and it took him too long to realize that it was the wall-mounted door-phone ringing just down the hall. Jean had had it set to play the opening notes to Moonlight Sonata, and the urge to just sit and listen to the crackling notes was strong. 

He reminded himself that he was not yet too damn dysfunctional to remember that when a phone rang, it wasn't for the pretty music; it was because someone was trying to contact him. With a huff, he climbed to his feet and went to investigate. 

The security device had been state-of-the-art when Jean had purchased it, back when their ages still had 'teen' in the number. It was outdated now, but still worked fine. Scott felt a dull pang of surprise to see Alvers in the cam feed, pressing incessantly at the buzzer. 

Scott fumbled for the phone, nearly dropping it before managing to get it to his ear. "Alvers?" 

The look on Lance's face was complicated. Stark relief shone through, even through the grainy camera, but rage had his fists balled at his sides, jaw clenched. 

"Summers! Let me up right now so I can kick your ass!" 

"That's not encouraging." 

Lance was wearing the same top Scott had seen him in last, but had thrown on jeans, a leather jacket, and his boots. His hair was a greasy rat's nest; evidentally he hadn't bothered to brush it. 

"Summers!" Lance boomed again. "As your _boss_ I am ordering you to--" 

Scott buzzed him in. Lance was making a scene. It wouldn't be good for anyone if human security was called. In this state, Lance would likely shake the building apart. 

It didn't take long. The pounding on his front door was heart-jarringly loud. Scott wondered, numbly, if he should feel afraid as he crossed the room and unlocked the door. 

Lance was on him in a second, knocking him into the far wall. The back of his head collided rather painfully to the corner of a painting, and he let out a muffled noise of protest. "Alvers--!" 

Lance was _hugging_ him; thick arms strong as pythons crushing the breath out of his lungs, gripping the back of his neck with bruising ferocity. He was shaking. 

"Alvers..." Baffled beyong belief, Scott struggled to touch him, patting at his arms, skimming over his back. "What in the world...?" 

"I thought you'd be dead, you asshole," Lance snarled, his jaw moving against Scott's shoulder as he spoke. "I thought I'd come up here and find you hanging in your closet with your fucking eyes all bugged out and your tongue all blue and... And... I thought..." 

_Oh._

It made sense. It was a very logical conclusion to leap to, and Scott hadn't considered it for a second. Scott had only promised not to kill himself _on Lance's watch,_ and they hadn't parted on good terms. 

"I'm not," Scott said, knowing it was too little, too late. "I promise, Alvers, I... I wasn't even thinking about that. Not tonight." 

Lance's shaking only increased. If this kept up, he was going to give himself a heart attack. Scott rubbed soothing circles on Lance's back, allowing himself to be held even though it hurt. 

"I'm sorry I scared you," Scott added after a moment. "I swear I didn't mean to." 

"So what _did_ you mean, huh?!" 

Just as abruptly as he'd grabbed him, Lance released him, backing up. At six-foot-three, the muscle-bound avalanche could be imposing indeed. He was solid as an oak, fit as an athlete, and outranked Scott in every cagegory. If he wanted to do damage, he easily could. 

"I was just getting some things settled," Scott said, growing quieter, calmer, as Lance's panic hit its summit. "For moving to the city. I should have told you. That was thoughtless not to. Of course you were worried." 

Lance stared at him. Swallowed. Scott could see the tic of his rapid pulse in his throat. "Show me," Lance said finally, after a long stretch of silence. He was visibly trying to pack in his feelings, to compartmentalize. To _be the boss._ In that moment, Scott felt he understood Lance more than he ever had before. 

"Okay, Alvers," Scott agreed, keeping his voice soft. When he reached for Lance's hand, the other mutant allowed him to take it. 

They walked through the apartment together, the music from the gramophone growing louder as they crossed the hallway. Lance looked incredibly out of place among the glass vases of silk flowers; the oil paintings; the glossy wood floors. 

Scott led Lance straight to the bedroom, pushing the door open. Stepped back and allowed his boss to see the piles of belongings; clothes folded, books sorted into piles. 

"This is all I was doing," Scott felt compelled to say. "I promise." 

Lance looked around the once tidy area like a weary man observing a war-torn land, and Scott tried to see it from his perspective. Jean's vanity, dusty and untouched since her death. Her strappy red heels still kicked off under the chair. The glass cabinet, full of plaques and certificates and awards; photographs of them both shaking hands with celebrities and politicians. The shell-shaped gramophone just reaching the end of _Let It Be._

Lance lingered at the obvious empty space in front of the dresser where Scott had been sitting, stuffing things haphazardly into bags. Unconsciously he touched the foot of the bed, his hand pressing down on the thick gray blanket. Finally, he looked up, golden-brown eyes pained. 

"You scared me," Lance said, almost like a question. Scott wet his dry lower lip with his tongue before speaking. 

"I didn't mean to. I wasn't thinking. I'm really sorry." 

Lance sank onto the bed as though his legs could not support him a moment longer, covering his face with his hands. It was such an unexpected, _vulnerable_ expression that it struck through Scott's numbness like an arrow. He wondered what to do. Should he leave him be? Go to him? 

After some thinking, he crossed to Jean's vanity and knelt, opening the lowest drawer. Though it hadn't been touched in nearly a year, it rolled open on silent wheels, and Jean's leather purse still smelled faintly of the perfume samples she stashed in its front pocket. 

He rooted through her belongings, past her billfold, past a tiny water bottle, before his hand encountered the cold metal of her keys. 

"Here," Scott said, working the key to the apartment off the fob. It felt wrong to be doing this with Jean's things-- _sorry, sweetheart, I'm so sorry_ \--but in this one case, maybe she'd understand. "I'll write down the door code for you. You can... You can come here whenever you want, until I sell it. That way you'll... You'll know." 

Lance took the key from him and stared at it for a long, dull moment before slipping it into his jacket pocket. Seconds ticked by, and the gramophone fell to hissing static. Scott was relieved for an excuse to cross the room, to slip the record off the player and back into its sleeve, to tuck the gramophone back into dormancy. 

When he turned around, Lance was watching him; exhausted, hurting. It felt like nothing at all to brace an arm on the bed, to lean in and kiss him softly. 

Lance, on reflex, returned his kiss for a fraction of a heartbeat before pulling away. "What are you doing?" 

"Talking to you in your weird cuddly wolf language." Scott tilted his face, kissing Lance's forehead instead. "I'm okay. I'm sorry. Thank you." He kissed Lance's cheek, nose, and chin in conjunction with the sentences and tried not to feel foolish. 

Lance stopped him from continuing. Rubbed at Scott's collarbone with a thumb. "You don't... You don't have to. Do that. I'm... Red was your only partner, wasn't she?" 

Scott hadn't said as much, but it was true. He'd never been with anyone before or since Jean Grey; not romantically, not sexually. Not until Lance. 

The avalanche must have read the truth in his face, because he sighed, long and slow. "Sometimes I'm so used to the way things are with me, with my team, that I... I forget. That it's not exactly the norm. I forget that you're... new to this. I'm sor--" 

"Swans mate for life," Scott interrupted Lance's speech before he could dig himself too deep into a pit of guilt. 

When the avalanche blinked at him, startled into quiet, Scott explained: "Usually, anyway. And, sure, they can separate, if nesting fails, or if one of them dies. They move on. But they're sort of a one-gal type of bird. And that's not saying swans are _better_ than wolves, but--" 

Lance stopped him. "You don't have to explain monogamy to me, Summers." 

Scott felt his ears redden. He turned away, heart jumping a little when he saw Jean's warn old bathrobe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Sometimes it still seemed like any second now, she'd step out of the shower; put it on; lean her tired head on his shoulder. _Scott, why is Lance Alvers in our room? Why did you kiss him?_

"I'm sorry I hurt you," Lance said, finally, and Scott looked back at him. Lance was looking down at his hands, picking at an old burn-scar one wrist. "I'm not-- like that. I don't have sex with people like some conquest, and I'm sorry the team made you feel like that. It's an inside joke, cuz jerks at work are always saying shit. I can see why you felt like they were being serious, but I promise I don't think of it like that." 

_What, because you told me I was yours? You told me I belonged underneath you; and then you were surprised when I took it seriously?_

Scott didn't want to start a fight. Not in this room; not in this apartment. Not with this man. 

He turned, climbing up on the bed. Brought his knees to his chest. Thought about putting another record on the gramophone, then changed his mind. Lance would no doubt just make fun of his taste in music. 

"I wouldn't have hung myself," Scott said, finally, and Lance looked at him. "I already told you that." 

"No?" 

Scott jerked his chin towards the bathroom. "Bathtub. Pills. Whiskey. Get messed up enough and you don't even know you're drowning." 

Lance blinked at him, silent and still and radiating an odd sort of energy. Then he climbed to his feet and threw the bathroom door open, sending Jean's bathrobe slipping from its hanger to the floor. 

Scott watched him unscrew the metal stopper out of the massive whirlpool tub and pocket it. Didn't raise a finger to stop him from rooting through the cabinets, raiding the pill bottles. They rattled as he tossed them into a cloth bag he pulled from the wicker hamper, slinging it over one shoulder like a demented Santa Claus. 

"Where's the booze, Summers?" Lance asked, voice flat. 

"There's a shelf in the kitchen with all the decanters." 

Scott didn't follow him down the hallway; he simply laid back on the bed, knees to his chest, and listened to glasses thunking, to the glugging sounds of hundred-dollar whiskey being poured down the sink. It didn't really make that much of a difference. He could buy more. He could do it a different way. There was no way to stop anyone from anything they were really determined to do, no matter how hard you tried. 

Scott knew Lance would just ignore this truth; would continue this flurry of activity. He knew Lance well enough now to know that Lance _needed_ to feel as though he was doing something, no matter how futile. 

Lance returned minutes later, staunch and storming. When he threw himself back onto the bed, it was with some aggression. 

"Don't," was all Lance said. "Don't, Summers, you promised. Don't go off alone if it makes it worse. We have money. We can hire someone to deal with this." He waved a hand, gesturing to the room, the apartment as a whole. 

How to say that Scott had needed a break from Lance's apartment as much as he needed to feel close to Jean again? That unpacking his and Jean's life wasn't really work that someone else could do? 

He said nothing. 

Gradually, Lance sank back on the bed, rolling to face him. They weren't touching, but Scott could now smell the hint of whiskey on Lance's breath. He felt guilty for causing so much distress. He should have faded out quietly while he still could, without dragging in yet another person to mourn his absence. 

"Elephants?" Lance asked cautiously, and Scott was plunged into memories of that night that they'd slept together. The shameful way he'd reacted afterwards. 

"That wasn't your fault," he felt compelled to say. "When I got all... weird that night. I should have explained sooner. It happens to me every time. You didn't do anything wrong." 

Relief, again, was the first emotion Scott detected in Lance's eyes. "It happened with Red?" Lance asked. 

Scott did not want to discuss his and Jean's sex life, but he owed him this much, at least. "Yes. Every time." 

"So why did you two still--? I mean. It's like being with someone who doesn't want it." 

"No!" Scott protested. "I wanted her, and I wanted you. Don't take that away from me. I'm a grown-up. I get to decide what I want. It's just that I get... sad, after. Some hormone crash thing, I'm sure." 

"You never, like, talked about it with anyone?" 

"I talked about it with Jean." _Well, thought about it, anyway._

Lance rolled his eyes so hard they looked as though they might fall out of socket, reaching the end of his patience. "I mean like a _therapist,_ maybe? You get so depressed every time you bust a nut that you can't even move and you don't even consider professional help? That's not normal, Summers." 

This was not a conversation Scott wanted to encourage, and he said so: "I'm done talking about this." 

Lance made a noise of disgust, rolling onto his back to scowl at the ceiling. "You're gonna have to talk eventually. If not to me, then to _someone._ Things don't get better if you just ignore them-- trust me. I know that firsthand." 

_But they_ do _go away when you die. Sort of the appeal, isn't it?_

Lance shifted on the bed, reaching, and after a moment Scott took his offered hand. 

"I can't help you if you wont talk to me," Lance said, trying to sound decisive, mostly sounding grieved. 

"I never asked for your help," Scott pointed out. 

Lance scowled at him. His eyes were quite shiny, all of a sudden. Like he was fighting back tears. It was such a surprising sight that Scott didn't know _what_ to say. 

"Why do you care so much?" he finally asked. 

"I don't know!" Lance spat. "But you brought me into this and it's-- it's gonna hurt like a _motherfucker_ if this is the way it ends. It's not fair." 

It wasn't. He was right about that. 

Carefully, he tugged Lance's hand over to him, unable to look at him while he did so. He pillowed his cheek on their clasped hands, and closed his eyes when Lance brushed his cheekbone with a gentle thumb. 

"I am trying," Scott promised, with his eyes still closed. "I don't want to make this any more of your problem than I already have. I'll be more careful next time, okay? I'll... I'll tell you before I leave like that again."

Lance's voice was so quiet that it tripped something up in Scott's chest: "I'm gonna hold you to that, Summers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just occurred to me, after posting, that Lance probably learned that hot chocolate thing from Amy. "Friend is sad??? What would Amy do...? I KNOW! HOT BEVERAGE!!!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance levels up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for talk of alcoholism/recovery, and mention of past hard drug use.  
> Also talk of consent issues, the resolution of which is less black and white than many fanworks tend to paint them as. Note: The views of intentionally flawed characters do not reflect the views of the author.

"You will not believe the _fucking_ month I just had," were Lance's first words as he stormed into Amy's home office, flopping so hard into one of the squashier armchairs that it scooted a few inches to the left. He rubbed tiredly at his face and felt his therapist regarding him, amused.

"Hello to you too, Mr. Alvers," Amy said teasingly. He shifted his hand off his mouth so that she could see his sheepish grin. 

"Sorry, Guthrie. How are you?" 

"I'm doing well, thank you." 

Lance, long legs dangling over the arm of his chair, closed his eyes and listened to the comforting sounds of Amy standing and puttering around in her half-kitchen. The scent of coffee filled the air, and he sighed blissfully. 

"You're too good to me, G." 

"A hot beverage is always beneficial." 

By the time his appointment officially began, Lance had his coffee and Amy had her tea, and both were ready to talk. 

"Tell me about this month of yours," Amy said, pushing her glasses up her stone nose. 

Lance did. Hardly pausing for breath, he spilled it all out: The _Recruit Scott Summers_ mission and its surprising success; the suicidal revelation; their ill-fated tumble in the sheets. 

He'd been seeing Amy for too many years now to feel guilty about talking about his agents behind their back. Amy was nothing if not professional, and she somehow never crossed the streams on what various agents told her. She never used her unique position to play God, and so he trusted her. 

"So then Tro comes over, and you know what it's like with him--" he waved a hand around. "It's all _poke-poke, bother-bother_ and the next thing you know we're knockin' boots, and then _Summers_ came home..." 

Amy stopped him. "Scott found you in bed with Pietro?" 

"Well, I mean," Lance floundered. "Not _in bed._ But like, he knew." 

Amy nodded in that same frustrating, inscrutable way she always did. Was she judging? Assessing? 

"I find it interesting that you said Scott 'came home'. Do you think of him as living with you, or just staying with you as a guest?" 

Again, Lance paused. Had he really said that? Amy always picked up on the tiniest details. 

"He doesn't intend to stay," Lance was quick to clarify. 

"Do you _want_ him to stay?" 

Again: floundering. "Uh. Um. Well. The apartment is too small. He'd want his own room. And I saw his place! It's massive. He likes fancy stuff. I'm not fancy." 

"That doesn't answer my question, Mr. Alvers." 

Lance heaved a deep sigh. "I... I guess, yeah. I kind of wanted him to stay." 

Amy nodded. "Alright. Continue-- how did Scott respond when he came home?" 

Lance told the rest of the tale-- their awkward conversation; waking to find Scott and most of his things gone; the panic this brought. 

"I texted and called him like. A thousand times, but he didn't answer, so I had Todd track his phone. I know that's not cool, but I thought-- I really thought--" 

Here, Lance's voice broke. Amy waited quietly as he collected himself and, covertly, nudged a box of tissues across the table at him. He hated when she knew he was crying. 

"That must have been frightening," she said sympathetically while he practiced the breathing exercises she'd taught him. Lance was a very emotional person-- quick to anger, but quick to other feelings, too. As a man, it was more than a little embarrassing, no matter how Amy told him there was no shame in emoting. 

"I thought he might have gone to kill himself, and that it'd have been my fault. That I pushed him too far, and he'd have been better off if I never messed with him in the first place." 

There. He said it. It was such a relief to get that weight off his chest. 

"That's not all, G," he said, once he felt more in control of his voice. "I fucked up." Here, he launched into a retelling of Scott admitting his planned method of suicide. 

"You poured his alcohol down the drain," Amy interrupted, already guessing where this story was leading. "Did you drink some?" 

Shame made Lance hang his head. "Six years without a drink, and now I can't stop thinking about it. How fucked is that?" 

"Does Scott know?" 

Lance shook his head. "He's got enough on his plate without me heaping my problems on him, too. Anyway, I did it to myself. It's not his fault." 

"Mr. Alvers." There was gentle chiding in Amy's voice. "What's the rule here?" 

Lance sighed, then recited, "Everyone is flawed. There is no shame in asking for help. My friends love me and want to help me." 

Amy nodded. Lance wondered if she was remembering what he'd been like at age twenty, fresh from mutant prison, full of an ever-burning rage he tried to drown in alcohol. He'd been near unmanageable at the time. 

He took a sip of coffee. The monster that lived in his brain-- the monster that would never die, his AA sponsor had told him more than once-- wished it was something stronger. 

"This was a week ago?" Amy clarified. Lance nodded. "What's happened since?" 

"A whole lotta nothing, that's what." Well, that wasn't necessarily true. "I guess you must've told him to call his brother, right? I think he's hanging out with Alex today. And I talked him into letting Kitty help with his apartment shit so I don't have to stress that he's gonna swallow a bullet while I'm gone." 

"That's something you worry about a lot, isn't it?" 

"Of _course_ I worry. He's _mine!_ I haven't lost an agent since--" 

Here he fell silent. Amy's voice went very gentle: "Since John." 

St. John Allerdyce -- Pyro-- had been an older mutant of SHIELD. Difficult and unpredictable and explosive, the man was a danger to have on missions, but still Lance had tried and tried to connect, to lead, to help him, and where had that got him? 

John's death was an accident. One Lance would never stop blaming himself for, but an accident nonetheless. 

Suicide was a whole different ballpark. 

"Living with a mentally ill person on the edge of crisis can be extremely difficult, especially when you yourself are mentally ill. It can drag you into old habits and drain your resources." 

"So what, I should just dump him?" Lance knew Amy wasn't really getting at that. But he was still, sometimes, a bristly little avalanche. 

Knowing he was acting out, Amy just stared him down for a moment. Then sighed. "I'm going to lend you some literature." 

"More reading?" Lance groaned, mostly joking. Amy was always making him read her brain-books. He was secretly grateful; it made him a better leader. But he wouldn't be Lance if he didn't give people at least a little bit of a hard time. 

"Yes, more reading. And I'd like you to call both your sponsor and your primary contact, okay?" 

This time, Lance really did groan. He hadn't wanted to do that; hadn't wanted to admit to slipping up. He just hated letting people down. 

"Will you do that, Mr. Alvers?" 

"Yes." Much as he hated it, he knew she was right. 

"Good. I want you to do one more thing: add a new mantra to your internalizing rhythm." 

Well. 

"Are you gonna tell me what it is, or do I just have to invent one?" 

"I'd suggest..." Amy thought it over, tapping her foot as she considered. "Something like, 'Though I will do my best, I cannot make choices for others. The choices others make are not my blame to carry.'" 

Lance fidgeted, suddenly uncomfortable. "You're talking about Summers, right? You're telling me that if he kills himself, it's not my fault?" 

As always, she'd found the one thing that was bothering him the most and exposed it to the world. 

"I don't know if I believe that," Lance continued. "I feel like it might be my fault, if I don't do everything right." 

"I'd like you to say it anyway, please." 

Ugh. 

Internalized mantras were a coping mechanism they'd built together for when Lance's anxiety escalated into a panic. When spending money on himself brought him close to a meltdown. Whenever he feared he was a weak leader, or that the entire team secretly hated him. 

Closing his eyes, he made a fist and tapped his knuckles to his collarbone, in time with the beat of his heart. "Though I will do my best, I cannot make choices for others. The choices others make are not my blame to carry." 

He repeated it to himself several times, listening to Amy stand and shuffle off to her child-sized bookcase where she began selecting the texts she wanted him to take home and read. After several repeats, he began to feel calmer; like maybe this, too, was something he could believe.

He stopped when she set her selection of books down and glanced at the titles. _On Helping a Grieving Loved One,_ said the first. The tagline read: _Why it's Vital to Secure Your Own Oxygen Mask First._

He'd have to find a place to hide those from Scott. 

"So!" Amy said, and sat back down. "Lets talk more about your wanting Scott to live with you...?" 

# 

Usually, Lance only saw Amy once a month, but this time he scheduled his next appointment for only two weeks. He had a feeling he was going to need the extra support in the days to come. 

Then, good on his word, he sat in his Jeep and texted Pietro. "You awake?" 

The Maximoff twins had just gotten back to the states at around three that morning, but the speedster was not one for much sleep. He wasn't surprised to get a response within seconds:"I might be." 

As always, Pietro punctuated with a forest of emojis, only a fraction of which Lance was able to see on his outdated phone model. 

"You should meet me at the park in ten and let me treat you to apology crêpes," Lance spent a good two minutes typing. Again, the response was in seconds: 

"What did you do this time." 

The emojis took on a distinctly aggravated tone. The lack of question mark made the sentence look more stern. 

"At least let me feed you before you yell at me." 

This time there was no response, so Lance put his phone away and drove to the park.

He found Pietro sitting in the tall grass by the pond, tossing peas from a plastic bag to the swans. 

"I told you not to feed them." He nudged Pietro's hip with his boot. "They're evil." 

Pietro grinned at him; all sharp white teeth in his sharp, tanned face. " _Pretty_ and evil; I fit right in. They'll recognize me as their king and we'll take over the world." 

"Great. My number one agent is building a swan army." 

Pietro laughed, and Lance smiled at the sound. He loved Pietro's laugh; a little raspy, always a little surprised, like he hadn't meant to release such an uncalculated sound. Lance flopped down in the grass next to the man, and was pleased when Pietro leaned into his chest. 

"Missed you," Lance said sincerely, pressing a kiss to the side of Pietro's slender throat. 

"Yeah?" Pietro asked leadingly, and Lance wasn't imagining how the man softened, leaning into him. "Wanna show me how much you missed me?" 

Lance snorted and gave him a light shove. "Behave. We're in public." Before Pietro could make any more leering comments, he added, "Did you know swans mate for life?" He was watching two of the creatures swim together, farther away into the pond now that the peas stopped coming their way. 

Pietro gave him a funny look. "No. Do they?" 

Lance shrugged. For all he knew, Summers had pulled that tidbit out of his ass. "Maybe. Would _you_ ever consider being my boyfriend?" 

Pietro laughed again. "Lancelot, I've worked with you for over a decade. I've lived with you. I've saved your ass a thousand times and counting. We might as well be _married._ But no; I don't think I'd be your boyfriend." 

"You'd marry me, but you wouldn't date me?" 

"Gotta get those sweet, sweet tax breaks somehow." 

That was Pietro; always scheming the bigger picture. "Can I ask why?" 

Pietro's pointed face was stern as he assessed Lance with those piercing blue eyes; the same eyes he shared with his sister; that they'd inherited from their father. There was a reason they often used Pietro for interrogation purposes; he wasn't the biggest of their crew, but he could be terribly intimidating. "I don't want to hurt your feelings." 

"That'd be a first. Go on, you can tell me." 

Pietro shrugged. Sighed. "You're a mess, Alvers. And so am I. We both need someone stable." 

Lance thought it over. It hurt, a little, but Pietro wasn't wrong. They were both disasters in their own right. 

He caught Pietro's chin with a knuckle and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth until the other man smiled. Then he was on his feet in a too-smooth movement; the kind of inhuman grace that sometimes drew eyes. He offered Lance his hand, and didn't let go once they were walking together up a scenic path. "To protect you from my swan army," was his excuse. 

New West Park wasn't even a fraction as large as Central Park, but it was very scenic with an apple tree boarder, a large playground for children, and an area where rides like a tiny train and merry-go-round were operated. It was here a tiny food pavilion and crêpe stand were operated on weekends only. 

Mr. Ramón, on recognizing the pair, began preparing their standard order without being asked. He ladled batter on his griddle and, as it bubbled, prepared Lance's filling-- roasted pears dusted with chili powder-- then Pietro's: a horiffic combination of strawberries, chocolate chips, cream, and sugary cereal pieces. Both crêpes were wrapped in paper and handed over. 

As always, when Lance was able, not only to pay, but also to tip generously for a frivolous thing, he couldn't help but think of the Brotherhood's childhoods and teen years. They'd had to steal to eat; had to work tons of tiny, degrading jobs for anyone who'd hire them. Had spent winter nights piled together with every blanket and towel and article of clothing in the house; a shivering Todd clamped in Lance and Pietro and sometimes Tabby Smith's arms, with Fred and Wanda curled protectively around the group; a living, breathing igloo to survive below-freezing temperatures. 

They'd come so far since those days, but a part of Lance would always exist in a survivalist mindset, always waiting for such hell to find them again. 

They sat at their favorite picnic table. Lance waited until Pietro had demolished half of his sugary monstrosity-- all the better to put him in a good mood-- before carefully breaking the news. 

"Tro? I uh. I had a drink a few days ago." 

Pietro's shoulders stiffened. His jaw tightened as he set his crêpe down on its paper wrapper, and suddenly his eyes were fierce. "You're serious." 

Lance swallowed hard and nodded, unable to keep meeting that stare. He didn't want to see disappointment or anger on Pietro's face. 

"Then you need to tell Asim." In a blur of silver movement, Pietro had zipped around the table and pulled Lance's cell phone from his back pocket. He typed in Lance's password to bypass the lockscreen without even asking what it was. Funny; Lance had picked six numbers at random specifically to prevent Todd from guessing it and messing with his apps. Maybe it was time to enable a fingerprint scan. 

Pietro hit a button, and shoved the phone back into Lance's hand. 

_Dialing Asim,_ read the screen, and Lance shot Pietro a glare, which the other man returned tenfold, before Lance held the phone to his ear. 

Asim was Lance's AA sponsor. The man had seen Lance at his absolute worst and still managed to find faith in him. They met regularly as part of the program, but Lance didn't ever call him out of the blue. He was sure to know something was up. 

Asim answered on the third ring, soft-spoken, his accent warm. "Good morning, Lance. Are you well?" 

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine. I'm at New West Park with Pietro. You?" 

"That sounds nice. I'm just driving to work. Was there something you needed to tell me?" 

Well, he'd said it twice now: once to Amy, once to Pietro. He could say it again to Asim. "Last week I had a drink. I thought I'd be fine, but it's really dragging me down." 

Asim waved his apologetic tone off by asking the standard questions: where was he when it happened, what was his mood, what was he doing now to prevent a repeat incident. 

"I'm proud of you for telling me, Lance," he said. "I wish you'd told me sooner." 

"I know. I'm sorry." 

"Lets set up plans to meet soon. I need to go clock in now." 

They did. Lance ended the call feeling drained, but a little relieved. It hadn't been the end of the world. His two biggest supporters still had his back. 

Pietro wasn't going to make it easy, though. "You haven't done the other thing, have you?" 

_The other thing._ The thing they never, ever talked about directly. The thing that came in bricks of brown powder to be snorted or rubbed on his gums: a strong, cocaine-like high for humans; a Russian roulette death-trap for mutants. 

"No," Lance promised, meeting his eyes. "You told me you'd leave me if I ever did that again. That's the one risk I can't ever take." 

He watched some of the tension leech out of Pietro's posture and dared reach across the picnic table for his hand. "Love you, P," he said with full sincerity. "I won't let you down like that again." 

Even angry like this, Pietro laced their fingers together. "You really are a dumbass," he said, and the hurt in his voice snagged in Lance's chest. He swallowed hard, holding tight to that long-fingered hand. 

"But I'm your dumbass," Lance promised. "Long as you'll have me." 

# 

When Kitty texted him to come to Scott's place, Lance was panged with such a burst of anxiety that he hit 'dial' before he could think it through. 

She must have still been holding her phone, because she answered during the first ring. 

"Hey, sweetie." 

She didn't _sound_ distressed. He tried to temper his panic. 

"What's up, Kit-Kat?" 

"Alex is in charge of dinner plans; looks like he's cooking up a feast. I don't think the three of us will be able to eat all of it, so Scott said I should invite you and Jackson." 

Oh. Was that all? He told his pounding heart to chill the hell out. 

"This was Summers' idea?" For some reason, he was tickled by the idea that Scott wanted to invite him anywhere. He said, teasingly, "Ask him if it's a _date._ " 

Kitty laughed. "Scott, do you bring your little brother with you on dates?" 

There was a distant crash and some ebullient masculine whooping. "Alex!" Kitty barked sternly. "Alex Summers, tell me that's not fire. Did you just set the-- Alex!!!" 

More whooping. Boyish laughter. A very Scott-sounding groan of distress. 

Into the phone, Kitty said "I gotta go," and hung up. 

Shaking his head, Lance hung up too and got ready to go. He had to stop to fuel up the Jeep's gas tank first-- driving to Scott's penthouse was no small feat. He lived quite far away in a secluded, high-end neighborhood. 

Scott had agreed to Kitty helping him pack his and Jean's things. Jean and Kitty were friends, so maybe it felt less invasive to him, having her there, than it might if Lance were the one carrying the boxes. Alex's planned visit unfortunately overlapped the day they'd rented a truck. Rather than having them change their plans, the professional surfer good-naturedly agreed to spend the day inside with them. 

Traffic was light. Lance, music blaring, stripped off his sunglasses and parked beside Kitty's little blue car, affectionately named 'Blueberry.' He'd more than once joked that a stiff breeze could blow Blueberry away, to which she offered snarky retorts about gas-guzzling Jeeps that broke down roughly twice a month. 

Whatever. His baby was a good vehicle with _soul_ , damn it. And fuck, could she ever make the ground shake! Other cars pissed themselves in terror in her Jurassic presence. 

He used the door code to let himself inside and up the swanky glass elevator. Once at Scott's door, the noise inside-- music; clanging; laughter-- was so loud that he didn't even bother knocking, but used the key Scott had given him. 

Jackson was sprawled on the L-shaped sofa like he owned the place, watching the tail end of a Simpsons episode on the enormous wall-mounted TV. 

"Hey, punk," Jackson greeted, not bothering to sit up. Lance bumped knuckles with him, then messed his floppy hair as he passed the sofa for the kitchen. 

And the kitchen was a _mess._ Lance saw no hints of the aforementioned fire, but it looked as though every single pot, pan, plate, and utensil had been used in a storm of culinary fury. The center island groaned under the weight of a feast. 

In the middle of it all was a slender, barefoot man in shorts and a tank top that showed off a lot of smooth tan skin, his long blond hair tied in a knot on top of his head with a leather cord. 

"Alex?" Lance called, and the other mutant turned, fixing a truly dazzling smile on the older man. 

"Well if it isn't Alvers, Lance, the Avalanche." he said, with great warmth. He looked a little like Scott, if Scott had been shrunk and darkened in Photoshop, then spent the past decade smoking pot on a balmy beach without a care in the world. 

Lance offered his hand for a shake, but Alex shook his head. "No handshakes between friends, man!" he protested, setting his wooden spoon down. Before Lance could remark that they'd never exchanged so much as a nod from across a room, let alone _friendship,_ the surfer had enveloped him in a hug. 

It was a _nice_ hug, warm and unself-conscious. Alex smelled like tomato sauce and sunblock. 

"It was cool of you to fly out on such short notice," Lance said. "Sorry I didn't have room at my place for you to stay." 

"No worries, man," Alex reassured, letting him go. "Anything for my bro and his friends! I shoulda come ages ago. Haven't been to the mainland since... Since the funeral." 

For the first time, his smile faltered. But it was back in place before Lance could properly register that, when looking solemn, Alex _very_ much resembled his sibling. 

Lance hadn't gone to Jean Gray's funeral. He had no reason to. It didn't involve him. He doubted he'd be welcome. He had seen some of the coverage of it on the news, but at the time it'd just been someone he used to know. 

"Anyway, dude!" he recovered brightly, nudging Lance towards the hallway. "Go say hi to the man of the house!"

Giving Alex a wave, Lance followed the same hallway he'd walked before. With the place full of familiar people, it seemed a much friendlier environment. 

He stopped outside of Scott's bedroom door, which was cracked a little to let the light through. He heard Kitty's voice, and angled his head to listen. 

"-- that charity Jean loved; what was it called again?" 

"Youth in Need," Scott replied, dully. "It's for homeless teens. There's a lot of mutant kids there." 

"That's the one! I'm telling you, Scott, we could donate a lot of her stuff directly to them. Some other stuff-- the really valuable things-- we could have some sort of online auction for, and then donate the proceeds... I think Jean would like that; don't you?" 

"I..." Scott hesitated, and Lance thought he'd shoot down the suggestion. But he swallowed and took a breath. "I like that idea better than all the other ones we've had." 

"Well there you go! We got this." 

From his viewpoint, he saw Kitty cross the room and approach Scott, who was sitting on the bed with his back to the door. Kitty wound her thin arms around Scott's neck, drawing him close. Scott's hand rose to wrap around her wrist, as though seeking anchor. 

The pang of jealousy Lance felt for that was both surprising and inappropriate. This was a good thing. Finally, Scott was putting things in order... But he hadn't responded to any of Lance's suggestions nearly so gracefully. 

_This isn't about you,_ he reminded himself. 

"Is there anything you want?" Scott asked after a moment. "If you want to take something--" 

Kitty shifted from foot to foot, and let Scott slip out of her hug. "We weren't really the same size in anything," she said apologetically. "She was tall. And our styles are pretty different." 

"Anything? Books? Art?" 

"I'll look at the books. I guess there is one thing... You know that perfume she always wore? Sometimes I miss... I miss the way she always smelled when she gave hugs." 

Lance's heart hurt. _Oh, Kitty._ He knew she tended to keep a chipper attitude, even when she was hurting, but sometimes he took advantage of that. Told himself she was okay when he knew she wasn't, just because it was so good to have one stable thing in his life. He reminded himself to check up on her more often. 

Scott paused a long moment, and Kitty backpedaled with an embarassed laugh. "Or not! Sorry! I know that's a weird thing to ask. Forget I said--." 

"It's not weird. I'll get it for you." 

Scott stood and walked to the en suite bathroom. Lance took the opportunity to knock. "Summers? Kitty? It's me." 

Kitty flew to the door and flung her arms around Lance's middle. He hugged her back automatically, curious as he picked the remnants of a cobweb out of her ponytail. 

"Thanks," she laughed. "I phased through the dresser to begin unplugging stuff. Dusty." 

Looking over her shoulder, Lance saw what she meant. The room was looking partially dismantled; the bed moved away from the wall, the cabinets emptied; delicate knick-knacks wrapped in paper and placed in boxes. They'd gotten a lot of work done. 

Scott emerged from the bathroom with a little gold bottle in his hands. "I think this is the one you meant, Kitty," he said, looking at the two entangled agents. "But feel free to smell all the perfumes." 

"That's the one!" Releasing Lance, she turned to take the bottle from Scott. She unscrewed the cap to take a quick sniff, and then her smile fell, lost in memory. "Yeah," she said, with much less exuberance than before. "That's... that's the one." 

Lance and Scott both turned to her in the exact same motion, with arms held out. She let out a surprised little noise, blue eyes shining with unshed tears. "You two--" 

Even Lance had to laugh as he found himself holding Kitty, his arms on top of Scott's. He and Scott had similar instincts when it came to friends, it seemed. 

"You made it, I see," Scott said, sounding cautious as he looked over Kitty's head at his new boss. 

Lance shrugged. "Had to see what Alex was up to. The curiosity was killing me." 

Scott rolled his eyes; heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Oh, God. That one's a regular bull in a China shop." But he was smiling fondly. A true smile; genuine and warm. It transformed his face entirely. It was... Difficult to look away from. 

"Alright, you sexy, sexy mutants!" Alex's voice boomed from the kitchen. "Food is ON! Eat it before I eat it all by myself. Don't worry, Jackson. You're sexy too." 

Scott's smile increased; Lance saw his eyes crinkle under his glasses and his shoulders shake with a brief, silent laugh as they made for the dining room. 

"Alex... You do know there's only five of us, right?" Scott remarked, eyes huge, as he looked at the feast that covered his table. 

"Eh, it's fine. You can take home leftovers. Bring some to work. I never get to cook for a crowd; it's fun for me. Now _sit and eat,_ you old geezer." 

The five of them fit easily around the dining table with plenty of room leftover. Lance wondered if Scott and Jean used to host a lot of parties. 

" _Geezer_ ," Scott muttered grouchily. "I'm not even two years older than you!" 

Lance selected what looked like a little green package and imitated Alex in unwrapping the leaves, eating the steamed pork filling with a fork. 

"Good, huh?" Alex grinned, noticing Lance's enjoyment. "Laulau is a Mama Keliʻi specialty, but I had to cheat and cook it in the crock pot." 

Lance must have made a confused face, because Scott explained, "Mr. and Mrs. Keliʻi are Alex's adopted parents." 

Oh. Lance looked to see if Alex was uncomfortable with that information being shared with near-strangers, but the man seemed just as sunny as ever. "Ma and pops are great. They told me to take good care of my big bro while I'm here."

Jackson and Alex were the life of the party. They entertained the group with ridiculous antics that had Scott rolling his eyes and Kitty giggling until water spurted out of her nose. 

"Scott's actually not that bad at surfing," Alex was saying. "Well-- _technically_ speaking. He kinda treats it like he expects the waves to obey his command..." 

"Okay, I get it!" Scott dismissed. "I'm not _One With the Sea._ I'm still there to save your hide when you get caught in tropical storms because you're too pigheaded to listen to weather warnings..." 

"That was _one time!_ " 

"I wanna go to Hawaii," Kitty pouted. "Lance, how come missions never take us _there?_ " 

"Yeah!" Alex cheered. "Come visit me!" 

Lance didn't have any more say about where missions took them than anyone else at the table, but he shrugged. "Maybe!"

By the time the last piece of coconut pie was eaten, the group was groaning over too-full stomachs. "Hell," Jackson huffed. "I don't wanna drive all the way home. I could crash right now." 

"My hotel is just a few blocks away," Alex offered. "I've got a spare bed in my room, if you two promise not to get all lovey-dovey." 

"That might be a good idea," Kitty agreed. "I'm so tired I can barely keep my eyes open." 

It was fairly late; almost eleven. As agents, they'd kept weirder hours, but... 

"You and Jax go with Alex," Lance dictated, fighting a yawn as he fell into familiar leader territory. "We'll do cleanup. I'll get Summers home." 

"Mmmmkay." Kitty stood and trudged past him for her coat, lowering to press a kiss to his face. Habit had Lance turning for her mouth, and she almost fell for it, too. It was a last second switch that had her kissing his cheek instead. 

"Get home safe," she advised, and Lance saw Jackson's expression turn wistful and a little self-deprecating. His next pang of guilt was strong. Jackson knew about Lance and Kitty's past. Very few people didn't know, especially at SHEILD. Kitty had never cheated on Jackson, but Lance knew, deep down, where her loyalties lay. 

Scott looked a little put off by this, but he was distracted by a crushing hug from his brother. Alex hugged with his whole body, pressing close and winding a hand in Scott's hair, cradling the back of his head. He didn't let go for a long time. 

"We'll hang out tomorrow, okay bro?" Alex asked, and then added, so quietly that Lance knew he wasn't meant to hear: "I love you so much." 

Lance's respect for Alex rose considerably. 

"I... I love you too, Alex." Scott didn't look nearly so comfortable about verbalizing this fact, but he didn't seem willing to let Alex go without hearing it, either. Maybe it was a byproduct of being seperated so young, and for so long. Lance would have to ask Wanda about that later. 

Lance held up a fist as Alex passed, and the surfer tapped knuckles with him without losing stride. 

Then he and Scott were alone. 

"What a mess." Scott surveyed the dining room and kitchen. "You might as well go home, Alvers; I'll be up all night cleaning. If there's one thing Alex knows how to do, it's make a mess." 

Lance had thought of it as making a feast, but he saw himself as a glass half-full kinda guy. Scott was more the pessimist. "Nice try, Summers. I'm not leaving you." _Especially not_ here. 

Scott levelled a hostile glare his way. _Whoa._ Didn't take long for that mood to turn. "I don't need a babysitter. Are you going to be like this from now on?" 

Was he? Lance honestly couldn't see himself looking at Scott without worrying what he might do, if left to his own devices. Did that kind of fear _ever_ go away? 

"Why do you always have to fight me?" he asked, instead of answering. "Am I not allowed to give a shit about you?" 

He saw it, after the words were said. _Pride._ He was hurting Scott's pride by insinuating he was incompetent. What would Amy do? "It's the least I can do," Lance attempted, trying belatedly for kindness. "You feed me. I help clean." 

That pride flared bright; readable in the set of Scott's jaw, the square of his shoulders. Then, as if by conscious decision, it faded. "I've seen how you 'clean', Alvers." 

"Hey! Just because I _don't_ doesn't mean that I _can't._ Watch me. I'm a lean mean cleaning machine." He puffed his chest out, and finally Scott laughed. Victory. 

"I'll believe that when I see it." 

So he did. In a flurry of movement Pietro would have been proud of, Lance stood, grabbing platters and plates and noisily carrying them to the kitchen. He filled the sink with hot soapy water and set to scrubbing. 

Scott watched him in some surprise before shrugging and getting to work, too, boxing leftover food and putting it in the refrigerator. 

"Did you have a good day?" Lance asked, scraping dried rice and plum sauce off a stubborn plate. "I know I did. I did some paperwork and then went to see Amy. And got crêpes with Tro." 

He worked to keep casual; neutral. He worked not to show Scott how hard he was trying. If Scott saw the effort he put into all of their interactions, it might scare him away. 

Neatly lining the last of the laulau up in a Tupperware, it took Scott a moment to answer. "I did. Thank you. Kitty and I picked Alex up from the airport together." 

"He seems to really like you." 

"You think so?" 

Lance bit back the _'no shit, Sherlock,'_ that rose to the tip of his tongue. _Be nice,_ he reminded himself sternly, and started stacking plates in the dishwasher. 

"Do you have siblings?" Scott asked, and laughed. "I've known you for more than half my life and I never thought about that before." 

"If I do, I don't know about them," Lance explained. "I was taken away from my mom when I was still in elementary school. I tried to track her down a few years ago, but she'd died of a heroin overdose in '03." _Like mother, like son..._ "I don't know who my father is or whether he's still alive. I signed up for a study about whether specific mutations could be genetic in the hopes of running into a few other Greek earth-shakers... No dice." 

Scott looked surprised. "I... didn't know," he said awkwardly. "I'm sorry--" 

"It doesn't hurt or anything." It kind of hurt. "My team is my family. Were your parents mutants?" 

Even working together, conversing quietly like this, it was well past midnight by the time Scott's kitchen fit his 'clean' requirements. It was practically hospital-standard sterile. 

"Are you actually obsessive-compulsive, or are you just a tightass?" Lance asked, before he remembered he was supposed to be nice. When Scott shot an offended glare his way, Lance was saved by his cell phone ringing. He recognized that ring-tone. Snatching his phone from his pocket, he gave a very enthusiastic, "Hey, Asim." 

"Hi, Lance. Sorry I'm so late getting back to you. I had to work a double at the nursing home." 

Yikes; he'd been working that long?! "Sorry, man. Sounds like you need a break." 

"I'm very tired. But I wanted to check up with you first." 

"I haven't had a drop all day, Asim; all is well. Thanks for checking. I'm with a friend and everything-- no temptation now. Seriously, get some _sleep!_ " 

"I will. Lance?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Remember you're supported and loved by many." 

"Awww; _Asim!_ I _knew_ you loved me! You sly dog--" 

Lance was still chuckling when Asim sighed and hung up on him. 

Scott, pouring himself a glass of water, was pretending not to eavesdrop. Lance let a beat pass before explaining, "That was Asim. He's my AA sponsor." 

Scott nearly dropped his glass. "As in--" 

"Alcoholics Anonymous? Yep. I told you I was a drunk." 

"But you're--" 

"It started when I was twelve and it got to the point where I was blacking out every day. It was get help or die, and I've got too many people depending on me to kick the bucket now." 

Scott looked too shocked for words. Lance tried not to feel irritated by it. What; had Scott thought he was joking around before? "You're not the only one with shit going on, Summers." 

"It's not that! I'm just wondering why you had me meet you in a _bar._ You had a drink-- I saw you!" 

"You saw what I wanted you to see. They don't call me a 'spy' just cuz it looks cool on a business card. I was drinking a very flat cream soda. It tastes so weird with lime.." 

"You tricked me!" 

"Again: spy. You're part of the team now, so there won't be any more trickiness; I promise." 

"You let me have a few drinks and planned to sleep with me, and all you were drinking was a cream soda?" 

All of a sudden, the discomfort on Scott's face took on a whole new meaning. Oh. _Oh._ Well, when he put it that way, it sounded terrible. 

"I... don't have any defense for that," Lance admitted. "Yes. You're right. That's pretty fucked up. It's totally valid if you're mad at me for that." 

"Oh well, so long as I have your _permission,_ " Scott hissed, face reddening. Then he turned away from Lance, his focus back on his glass of water, on the ice he scooped from a bucket with tongs. _Clink, clink..._ The sound of the cubes hitting glass was deafening in the stillness of both men. 

There were excuses Lance could deploy. _It's just part of the job. It was literally my mission statement to do exactly that. That's nothing; way worse things have happened to me. You're too damn sensitive._ The little Amy that lived in his brain suggested these blusters would not help. Sex stuff was a Big Deal to Scott, and that was unlikely to change. 

"You think you can forgive me?" he attempted. "I'm-- I swear. That won't happen to you again here. Not from me. Not from anyone else."

He reached for Scott, unsure what the protocols here were (Did Amy have a book about _that?_ 'So You Were Called Out on Infringing Your Agent's Consent'...) and for a moment it looked like Scott would cave; would allow himself to be held, to be comforted. He pulled away at the last moment. 

"Elephants, Alvers. I'm. I'm gonna need some time to think about all this." He sounded pained, as though this weren't what he wanted, either, and Lance bit back his frustration. Why _did_ everything have to be so difficult; have to be such a fight? This was only a problem because Scott was _making_ it a problem. If he could just grab Scott and shake some reason into him-- 

"So what; you want me to leave?" 

"I think that'd be best." 

The more controlled Scott sounded, the less controlled Lance felt. He saw slight ripples from near-imperceptible tremors rise in the draining sink-water. "Well for-- for how long? You _work_ for me!" 

"I just don't know! Please leave!" If Scott really wanted Lance to leave, he could fight him for it. 

(If he'd really wanted you to stop, he could have just asked you to.) 

Lance felt sick to his stomach; panicking, with nowhere to go, nobody to blame. His palms sweated, and when he spoke, his voice cracked. "I-- okay." 

Where was the leader persona he'd worked over a decade in crafting now? He stuffed his fists into his armpits so that his hands wouldn't tremble, and focused on his breathing as he left the penthouse, as he rode the elevator to the ground floor and stood outside, alone, in the dark. The waves inside his brain crashed, threatening a maelstrom. 

It took forever to compose a barely legible text to Pietro: "Team emergency." Each letter of Scott's address was a Herculean effort to compose. 

Pietro wasn't his second-in-command for nothing. He'd barely put the phone back into his pocket when the other man was there in a cacaphonous rustle of chiffon made in all the shifting colors of moonlight. Any other time, Lance would have asked Pietro why in the hell he was parading around in what looked very much like an off-the-shoulder prom dress, but at the moment he could barely see straight. 

He wondered, dimly, if he was going into shock. That, too, should have been a hilarious thought: He'd seen and done it all the whole world over, and _this_ was what was tipping him over the edge? 

"Are you gonna puke?" were Pietro's first words. "I'd strongly prefer if you did not puke on me. Do you have any idea how expensive this dress was? I actually paid for it and everything. With money." 

Lance shoved Scott's key into Pietro's hand. "Summers. Number nine. Can't leave him alone. He doesn't want me." 

"Hey." Pietro's mouth grew pinched in consternation. He put a hand on either side of Lance's face, squeezing. "Look at me. Where'd you go, Avalanche? I can't find you in those empty eyes." 

Lance didn't want to resurface, but Pietro acted as a lighthouse, guiding him back to shore. He felt, once more, present in the moment. Pietro breathed a sigh of relief. "Better. Don't do that-- s'creepy as hell. What's going on?" 

"I did something shitty, P, and now Summers doesn't want me around anymore, that's what!" He hadn't meant to shout at Pietro, but everything felt so topsy-turvy and he didn't know if he could be a proper leader to fix it. "I just need you to go upstairs and be with him, okay?" 

"Okay... But what about you? Where will you go?" 

_The nearest bar._

Pietro gave Lance a little shake. "Where will you _go,_ Lance? That wasn't a rhetorical question. Answer me." 

Lance sighed. Tried to think. He wanted quiet. He wanted solitude. He wanted... _A drink, a tall drink, enough drinks to take the world away._

"Is your place okay?" he asked. "Can I sleep in your room? Wanda's home, right?" Wanda wouldn't give him the Soft, Sad, Knowing eyes that Fred and Todd would, anyway, in their little house of recovery. Wanda was the furthest thing from soft he'd ever met. 

Pietro considered. "Yes," he said, after a time. "But you're to go straight there. No detours. Text me the second you get there; I'm going to ask Wanda to wait up for you." He held up a finger when Lance opened his mouth to protest. "I've seen that look on your face before, Alvers, and I'm not letting you go unless you promise me." 

Even in the frustration this built up-- _let me go, just let me have one fucking drink. I need it. How can I deal with this without one?_ \-- Lance couldn't help but feel a spark of respect, of pride, for his old friend. "Yes. I-- I promise, Tro." 

"Good." Pietro released him, still glaring suspiciously up into his eyes. "If anything were to happen to you, I'd..." He couldn't seem to think of a threat big enough, settling for, "I'd do something you'd _really hate._ So. Keep that in mind." 

That almost forced a chuckle out of Lance. Almost. He turned to watch Pietro hitch up the trailing end of his dress, walking with careful steps inside the building, and knew he was leaving Scott in capable hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason Amy calls Lance 'Mr. Alvers' but Pietro and Scott 'Pietro and Scott' is because Lance never thought to ask her to call him by his first name. (They've worked together for 9 years. Lance isn't always the brightest.)
> 
> Life shit is happening, so this and all other stories are gonna take a hiatus while I put all my focus on Dad Logan for the next month or so-- Dad Logan is my baby and the Most Important one I make sure I finish. If I'm back here before the end of July, hit me with a broom.


End file.
